All is Fair in Love and London
by smilecandyxo23
Summary: Twenty-five years after Pride and Prejudice, Mrs. Darcy takes her four children and some of her nieces to London for a winter, where the three Darcy daughters encounter fascinating men and experience romances of their own.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: In beginning this story, I realized it would be impossible to write like Jane Austen so I sort of developed my own style of writing for this story. To clear a few things up, this takes place about twenty five years after Pride and Prejudice. Lydia Bennet Wickham has six children consisting of five daughters and the youngest a son. In order of age, they are Annamaria, Felicity, Dorothy, Cornelia, Priscilla and George. No copyright intended! **

_Dear Lizzy,_

_It has been long since our last correspondence and I feel its absence keenly. I hope life runs smooth for you; I am positive it does for surely you must want for nothing. Is not that so, Mistress of Pemberley? Oh, how droll it is even after so long to imagine _you_, Elizabeth, in the possession of such a title! _

_However, my purpose for writing is my tentative request for a favor. Not a monetary supplement, for you have oft displayed your distaste for such entreaties. Fortunately for my dear family, both lovely Jane and Mama see fit to send me the occasional package to help us along. Rather, I ask familial support._

_ I suppose you remember the time when my Annamaria was eighteen and I sent her to Jane for a season. The intention behind this was Amy choosing a husband able to support her grandly. As love often goes though (for I am of particular personal experience and may speak wisely on such matters) she left her heart irreversibly to First Lieutenant Miller back home. Thus, the fruition of Amy's venture to Jane bore little but better conduction in society (though she was marvelous already) and a quantity of stylish dresses._

_ Perhaps you see where I lead to in the ramblings above. As Jane surely had the pleasure of informing you—for I pointedly requested she would—my second daughter, Felicity, is newly engaged. Behind her in age is Dorothy. And, oh Lizzy, do I fear for the marital future of my third daughter! For Dorothy is a simple soul, lacking in the fancies and embellishments of her sisters. I fear she becomes a Mary. She is plain in face and has the personality of a spinster, her temper compliant and her interests as simple as porridge. My dearest, darlingest sister Elizabeth…would you take Dorothy for a season? For if she does not find a husband (she is already three and twenty, if you would believe!) I am sure my nerves shall fail me._

_ Of my other two daughters, you need not worry on their wifely futures. For Cornelia is pretty as Kitty was and has enough charm in her youth to attract a suitable man. As for my perfect youngest, beautiful Priscilla, she will surely make the greatest match of her sisters. No, I need not help with Nellie or Cilla but specifically with Dorothy. I could not bear the shame of having a spinster daughter. Would you help me, Lizzy?_

_Lovingly yours forever,_

_Mrs. Lydia Wickham_

Bright, dark eyes blinked once, twice, upon finishing the letter. Then they widened in frustration and aggravation. In a moment, their bearer was up, striding with brusque, angry steps to the large bay window.

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy furrowed long, sloping brows together and her fingernails bit into the flesh of her hand. How dare her insolent younger sister, after at least two years of no correspondence and two decades of begging for money, now request this one impossible favor of her with such incivility?

Mrs. Darcy remembered all too well the outcome of Annamaria Wickham's stay with Mrs. Jane Bingley eight years ago. The girl had been a mess of impropriety and scandalous in nature. After Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley's difficulties in introducing her to society and making humiliating apologies to all those she carelessly offended, she admitted to a secret engagement with an officer in Wickham's regiment. That had been the final straw for even the Bingley family's kind hospitality and, her welcome overstayed, Annamaria was sent back to the Wickham with the worst to report on her mother's sisters. The last Mrs. Darcy had heard, she had married the man—this Lieutenant Miller—and they had a young son. And after this whole tragedy—which, at the time, Lydia had blown off with a flighty laugh and a letter detailing similarities in her daughter's character to her own—Lydia had the insolence to beg her sisters to introduce another of her daughters to society?

In the light of the shining sun, Mrs. Darcy took a deep breath and glanced at the letter, lying in its seemingly innocent disguise upon the glossy wood. She had heard from Mrs. Bennet similar sentiments on the third Wickham daughter, named Dorothy. Apparently, she had little taste for society, men, fashions and especially dance. This set her apart from her four sisters, whom Mrs. Darcy knew to be painfully and ridiculously narrow-minded and nasty.

The thought occurred to Mrs. Darcy that this Dorothy might suffer acutely in her home. She seemed doomed to spend the rest of her unhappy years in it, ridiculed by her silly sisters, no more than annoyance to her mother. As she dreamed up this terrible fantasy, Mrs. Darcy felt the misery of this poor girl and her compassion was stirred toward her niece's fate. Perhaps all the young woman needed was a gesture of help and a step on the right path. This Mrs. Darcy could do… Her thoughts tumbling ahead in such a direction, Mrs. Darcy went to search out her husband.

The house was dilapidated and impossibly small. It stood on a cracked and grimy street bordered by several like buildings, weary with age and abuse. The scratched front door groaned terribly as Mr. Wickham pulled it open. From inside the unlit, dark interior, a draft of stale and frigid air wafted out.

"Our new home, ladies, son," were his only words before disappearing into the house. Mrs. Wickham swept a piece of fluffy hair from her forehead and let loose a great sigh of complaint, accentuated with mutters of her distracted nerves.

"Nellie, run inside and open the windows. It seems the house needs some airing out. Flissy, Dorothy, unload the furniture you can carry from the wagon. Georgie, I know you are fatigued but I am sure your sisters would appreciate any help you could extend. Cilla, my dear, let us go and start supper. Bessie does not arrive until tomorrow."

At the lady's direction, Cornelia ambled to the house, arm in arm with Priscilla, who complained loudly of Bessie—the maid's—regrettable absence. Felicity betrayed a sour expression and slunk to the wagon. Young George gave a defiant shake of his head and raced into the house after his father.

Dorothy slowly walked to the wagon, stacked high with the family's possessions. She knew from Felicity's mulish face and past experience that her elder sister would carry her first bundle into the house and remain within, leaving Dorothy to unload the rest. Ordinarily, Annamaria's husband, Mr. Miller, would assist her in the unpacking but he, Annamaria and their little boy were to join the Wickham family the following week.

Minutes later, Felicity had entered the house with her bundle. Three hours following, when Dorothy at last finished the unloading, the sky had begun to darken and no one had come out to aid her in her endeavors. It was very predictable, as it had been so for eight of the thirteen moves Dorothy had gone through in her three and twenty years of life.

Miss Dorothy entered the house only to be brusquely informed supper was to be served in the next two minutes. She washed the dust from her hands and shook her weary shoulders. There would be little to expect from the evening.

Mr. Wickham was no doubt already discovering the most renowned pubs of this new town and might very well fail to present himself at dinner, no cause for agitation as this happenstance was familiar to his wife and children.

Mrs. Wickham, Cornelia and Felicity would no doubt occupy themselves in needlework and gossip while the youngest and most spoilt, Priscilla, would entertain herself with thoughts of the fresh young men for her to entice. And Dorothy would sit by the fireplace, as was her wont, and try to enjoy the sound of inane and incessant chatter until it was time to administer Mama her facial potions and put a squealing, squirming George to bed. Then she herself would retire and would take no pleasure from this.

For, as she now discovered with no great degree of surprise, the larger bedroom of the two set aside for the daughters had been claimed by Cornelia and Priscilla. The smaller—hardly larger than a common linen closet—had room only for two poorly-made beds and one stood directly beneath a leaky spot in the room. Dorothy saw at once Felicity had left this resting place for her use. Annoying, she supposed, but all too predictable.

Indeed, this was how the evening went until—just as Dorothy was about to carry an adamantly negative George to his own tiny room—Mrs. Wickham read a letter she had received that day.

As this was hardly an interesting occurrence, Dorothy paid it no mind. Indeed, she continued to ignore such a distinctly not momentous event even when Mrs. Wickham promptly fainted away. This, too, was not unusual in the Wickham household.

Just a whiff of the bitter salts was enough to revive the lady, for she was well-practiced in the art of fainting. When she did so, she clutched a fluttering hand to her ample bosom and gave a great, dramatic sigh.

"Oh, praise the Lord, my dear daughters! We have been saved! Thank my dearest sister! Oh, lovely Elizabeth!" Most surprising in such a theatrical speech was the sister in question. Her whole life, Dorothy had heard nothing but ill of Elizabeth Darcy and her proud, fabulously wealthy husband.

They who owned a townhouse in London bigger than Grandmama and Grandpapa's Longbourn manor. They who were proud master and mistress of the palace of Pemberley. They who had relinquished but little of their sums of money to assist their struggling youngest sister. Oh yes, Dorothy could not name one positive attribute of her mysterious aunt and thus, was exceedingly surprised to hear her name mentioned in such exclamations of relief and joy.

"Pray, do explain, Mama," cried Cornelia. With the antics of an opera soprano's debut, Mrs. Wickham relayed the following; "I wrote my second eldest sister, Elizabeth Darcy, one fortnight ago, begging to her a familial favor. My request was she take one of my daughter's in for a season and introduce her to the high society she is privy to in hopes of making an affable match, one that would spiral the rest of her sisters in the way of the richest of men. Contrary to your father's predictions and true to mine, she has accepted.

Now, you must understand that when I made the choice of whom to request sending, I realized she was of practical and exceedingly traditional mind. She would not shelter and prepare a niece of hers for an excellent marriage with the knowledge that the niece in question had an elder sister yet single. Thus, it was my only choice to require she take in Dorothy.

I am greatly saddened to be unable to send you, Nellie, and especially you, Cilla, for you both would have thrived far better than I suppose Dorothy to. However, it was not a decision I was at liberty to determine."

Dorothy had stood as her mother spoke and now sunk slowly back into her chair, legs weak and mind dizzy with shock. Cilla wept profusely into Nellie's shoulder. Felicity glared in pure envy at Dorothy for though Felicity was the elder of the four sisters in the room (and Annamaria the eldest of them all) she was newly engaged to a Mr. Nicholas Daily. Had she not accepted his proposal a fortnight before, it would be her on the way to Pemberley and the Darcy family.

Dorothy could only stare in astonishment, her emotions a confusion of conflicts, as Mrs. Wickham furthered Cilla's antics with dramatic tears of her own and laid down contrastingly enthusiastic plans. One thing was certain, Dorothy thought as she heard herself referred to as Dottie, a childhood nickname she had long since shed; her life had changed…for better or worse was yet to be determined.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: The Darcys have four children. In order of age they are Isabella Jane (24 ½), Fitzwilliam Bennet "William" (23), Catherine Anne (19 ½) and Georgiana Emma "Gemma" (18). Thank you so much for the reviews!**

Catherine sat still in shock, staring at her mother. Beside her, Isabella stiffened and her furrowed brows betrayed her confusion. William merely raised his eyebrows until they disappeared under the line of his hair. They, too, seemed incapable of speech. Not so for the youngest Darcy, Gemma, who quickly launched into talk.

"A Wickham?" she gasped, whispering the name as if it were a cursed word. "At Pemberley?"

"Yes, a Wickham at Pemberley. Not just any Wickham, though but the eldest single daughter, Miss Dorothy Wickham. For not all of them are the same, just as none of you are quite the same," replied Mrs. Darcy briskly but she did not sound as assured as her words led one to believe.

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and adopted an expression of pained discomfort but volunteered nothing. Accordingly, he received a warning glare from his wife and dutifully relaxed his tight countenance in order to speak.

"Just four days after your cousin's arrival, we are leaving for Town. While I remain there for an as yet unspecified amount of time, your mother and the four of you shall remain in London until sometime in March. It is time you spend a winter season."

At his announcement, Catherine glimpsed Gemma's excited feet give loose to a swift victory dance.

"As diverse as London society may be, we realize constant company with only our family structure is destined for fatigue and temper. Thus, we shall be joined by your Aunt Bingley, Janie and Grace," added Mrs. Darcy, a fleeting smile appearing on her face.

Gemma let out a triumphant squeal of satisfaction and her father's grave countenance lessened at the innocent joy such a pronouncement gave her. Beside Catherine, Isabella interlocked her fingers and the knuckles went white with the strain in which she pressed them together. Catherine winced in sympathy for her elder sister.

The eldest Bingley daughter was Jane, and she was three and twenty years, like William. Jane was the loveliest of them all save perhaps Bella herself, but breathed hardly a word, so timid was she. Elegant and confident Isabella often felt stifled into a friendship Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley had forced upon them, wrapped up in a dream of their eldest daughters sharing a deep friendship. Not that shy Jane was at fault—one could hardly blame the young woman for a quiet character and none could discount the handsome girl's natural goodness of heart—but it was hardly fair to impress Isabella into spending languid days with her cousin.

On the contrary, fresh and vivacious Grace Bingley, one mere year younger than Gemma's eighteen, had formed a close and intimate relationship with the youngest Darcy. The two were well-matched in the brilliancy of their manner and the youthful tint to their fantasies.

As for Catherine, she had no cousin close in age to her nineteen and a half years, or at least none worth forming a friendship with. She supposed there was the eldest child and only daughter of Catherine's Aunt Kitty, Susanna Sinclair, who had one and twenty years but she was silly and bland in mind. There might also be a daughter of Aunt Wickham's around nineteen but the Darcys did not frequent _that_ family and kept minimal contact. Thus, Catherine was not aware of their varying ages for, aside from the knowledge of there being five daughters and a younger son, Catherine knew nothing of the Wickhams.

"You mentioned Miss Dorothy Wickham would be joining us for this winter in Town?" asked William. Catherine could hear the trepidation in his voice and understood immediately. What would the presence of a partially fallen sister's daughter—whose mother had been victim to a now infamous elopement and subsequent hurried marriage—do to the Darcy family's social status?

Their shelter of her would cause others to rediscover the old rumors of the former Lydia Bennet, rumors that had ran rampant over two decades ago when the afore mentioned woman had eloped. Such gossip had caused a younger Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley no end of strife and humiliation upon their first entrances into the society their husbands' kept. Bringing this Wickham daughter under their protection would fuel fires that had blazed down long ago.

The rest of the family was quick to catch on to the meaning in William's words. Mr. Darcy's face darkened as he replied in a sharp voice, perhaps steelier than he intended. "The young woman is under our protection, Fitzwilliam, and is no cause of shame in our society. Those who do not accept her are those we should not frequent any longer. The friends among our acquaintances will prove themselves so by inviting her to balls and treating her as they would your sisters. Additionally, to protect her sanity of mind, no one will dare discount her credit in our presence and thus, she should be spared the vilest of the gossip that she will no doubt encounter."

At the thinning of her mother's lips, Catherine realized this was a sore subject for Mrs. Darcy. After all, Miss Wickham was Mrs. Darcy's niece; they shared blood, shared common character through Mrs. Lydia Wickham. With a wince of discomfort, Catherine chanced upon the thought that she, too, shared family heritage with this girl of much lower descent and horrendous family connections. Not that Catherine concerned herself much with connections; in her decisive opinion, maintaining them was at best fruitless and at worst, a grueling waste of time.

There was not much more to be said following Mr. Darcy's concluding speech and when it had been ascertained the girl was to arrive in a week's time, the Darcys retired to prepare for supper.

In quick time, the date for Miss Wickham's arrival came along and Catherine found herself awaiting her cousin in an afternoon of weak, late autumn sunshine. Tying the flowers she had gathered for their guest in a moment of rare selflessness, youthful Gemma bemoaned the coming of winter. "I do abhor the cold," was her present complaint.

At this William, most similar in temperament to Catherine, teasingly replied, "I am of sure opinion you shan't say so when it is such a cold, the poor gentleman beside you will be forced to give up his coat to preserve your happy countenance."

Gemma's response was merely a bright smile; she was hardly fazed by teasings of her flirtatious nature as they had been oft-occurring since her entrance into society nearly two years ago.

"I do hope Miss Dorothy arrives quickly for I am simply chilled into shivers," she continued after a period of silence.

Miss Isabella Darcy sent her a suffering sigh. "Oh, I do declare, Miss Georgiana Darcy, that are you the most insufferable young woman of my acquaintance." As was her wont, the youngest Darcy sibling took the comment in stride and merely wrapped an arm around her eldest sister.

"Do share an embrace with your dearest sister, Bella, for it is apparent _you_ are not troubled by this ridiculous temperature and must thus have plenty of warmth to share with poor, frigid me. I do not understand why Mama _insists_ we await her outside in this dismal weather."

"One more complaint, Gemma, and I swear you shall lose the use of your tongue," warned Catherine but the light flickering in her bright eyes betrayed her humor.

"My tongue certainly shall still soon, my dear Cate, for it is going numb and can only be halted from reaching such a pitiable state by speaking just so," replied the lady in question archly and smiled even more brilliantly at her brother's answering moan.

Thankfully for Miss Gemma's sisters and brother, they were spared anymore of Gemma's fresh comments and trying complaints when a creak of carriage wheels interrupted their light-hearted banter and one of the Darcy carriages rolled into view.

Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley had left this morning—the latter form the nearby estate of Lancrow Park—to await the young Wickham daughter at the inn in Lambton with the intention of both escorting her to Pemberley. And indeed here they were coming in the striking Darcy carriage and Catherine was so consumed with eagerness to set eyes upon this mysterious relative of hers, she fairly trembled from head to foot.

"I cannot _wait_ to catch a glimpse of our cousin," said Gemma excitedly and thus sent a necessary reminder to Catherine that indeed, the latter shared _some_ similarity with the former, even if it was only curiosity.

"As fortune would have it, you will see her in moments," replied William dryly but Gemma was so exuberant, she paid him no heed.

At last the carriage slid to a stop and the driver hurried down to hand Mrs. Darcy from the carriage.

Then came Catherine's Aunt Bingley, soft and lovely as always and at last a petite shadow of a woman descended with a natural grace, if unstudied bearing.

The young woman that stepped into the light, blinking in the manner of one astonished, was pretty in a simple, unremarkable way. She was of slender body and heart-shaped face, her coloring bland—dark in all respects save her snow white skin—but her features were straight and as they should be. The flaws Catherine saw were in her lips, which lacked romantic volume, and her posture, which was devoid of straight shoulders, but it was nothing rouge and confidence could not fix.

Her dress was plainer than any even Catherine's wardrobe could boast—for Catherine was the least interested in garments of her sisters and cousins—yet it fit the simplicity of her character. Indeed, Catherine surmised with no small degree of surprise, considering the family from which she originated the girl had made a favorable first impression.

"Girls, son, your cousin, Miss Dorothy Wickham," introduced Mrs. Darcy. Dorothy dipped an unpracticed but pretty curtsy and the girls responded with their elegant, sweeping ones. William gave a formal bow and Catherine could see by the open expression upon his face that he approved of Dorothy's first impression. The rest was yet to be divined.

Dorothy could feel her skin shivering under the scrutiny, could feel every part of her body crying at her to run in the opposite direction of their probing stares. Oh, they had been pleasant enough, she supposed. Her aunts were not at all as proud and cold as she had been told to expect, and most surprising was the comportment of Mrs. Darcy. For while Dorothy's mother's censure of Aunt Bingley had been light and sparing, Mrs. Darcy had fallen under many an oath and vile description, her name nearly a curse among the Wickham family.

Of Mrs. Darcy's children, Dorothy did not yet know how to formulate a thorough assessment of their characters. The eldest, Isabella, was easily the most beautiful woman of Dorothy's acquaintance and she failed to imagine a prettier lady. However, her countenance was reserved and her manner merely cordial, promising nothing and withholding everything.

The only son and second in order of birth, Fitzwilliam, was handsome enough, resembling more his mother than his father. His face was guileless and yet weary, an odd combination, and his manner playful while respectful. Dorothy knew not what to make of him.

Then there was Catherine. Exceedingly attractive in her own right, she did not seem to note her own beauty, which spoke of an absence of self-confidence, even if her manner was righteous and forward. But her quickness of tongue and sharpness of wit had been quick in endearing and shocking Dorothy in turn. She felt, more than knew, that Catherine would become her closest confidant of the three sisters.

Last there was Miss Georgiana Darcy, whom had insisted from the first moment of their acquaintance to be called Gemma exclusively. Oh, this was one who knew her beauty and knew the affect she had on people! She was young but vivacious, almost daringly so. Yet Dorothy felt that despite her occasional selfish tendencies and over-exclamations, the youngest of them all wore a disguise that concealed trepidations, hesitations and fear of judgment.

These were her first impressions of the infamous Darcy children, children that had been openly scorned and ridiculed by Mr. and Mrs. Wickham since their innocent infancy. After spending an evening in _their_ company and eating at _their_ luxurious table, in the presence of _their_ awe-inspiring father, Dorothy could safely conclude she had much to learn of _their_ minds and manners.

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	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you so much for the reviews again! I'm afraid this chapter is quite a bit shorter than others but it helps clear up Isabella's character. Enjoy!**

Isabella felt the painful timidity and quick compliance of Miss Dorothy Wickham keenly. Her mannerisms were subtle in their shyness, her voice barely a breath above a whisper. For just moments, Isabella Darcy had dared to hope she would find in Miss Dorothy a common character. Instead, the girl's personality resembled more Miss Bingley's than Miss Darcy's and of Miss Bingley Isabella had endured more than enough.

It was this cousin, known often as Janie to the closest of her relatives, that sat quietly in a circle of discussing women. Isabella observed Jane manage pleasantries with Dorothy while exuding an uncomfortable, timid air not unlike the Wickham girl herself. On the new cousin's other side, Catherine struggled to keep the conversation afloat, as it was in danger of slipping irrevocably into the abyss of silence.

For her part, Isabella had tried to engage Dorothy into light topics to no avail; the girl was ignorant on current issues—a favorite topic of Isabella's despite the opinionated views on its discussion among women—and read but little. She professed no little trepidation for dancing, did her best to duck behind the curtain of a metaphorical theatre's stage and nimbly escaped attention better than any Isabella had yet encountered.

Gemma, after realizing her newfound cousin had little taste for men and fashion, had abandoned attempts at conversation in favor of discussing the upcoming trip to London with her favorite cousin, Grace Bingley. The youngest members of their two families, both cousins were flirtatious and vibrant, eager and curious. Their voices, high with excitement, tumbled over the strained tension emitting from the rest of the room.

It was with utmost relief that Isabella welcomed her mother and Aunt Bingley into the parlor. They brought needed respite to the tired topics and abused pleasantries that had been circulating the room exhaustively for the whole of two hours.

"Upon sending word of our being in town, we have received invitation to the Benedict ball, just days following our arrival. Dorothy, Mr. Benedict is a close business partner of Mr. Darcy's and Mrs. Benedict a dear friend of Jane and mine," announced Mrs. Darcy. Such a proclamation elicited squeals of exhilaration from Gemma and Grace and smiles of varying degrees of genuine pleasure from Jane, Catherine, Dorothy and Isabella.

Isabella knew the Benedict family well, as they lived in nearby Devonshire. The wife was all that was amiable and intelligent and the husband endearing in his gruffness. They had no children, which had always kept the Darcy and Bingley children from forming intimate relations with the family. For as long as Isabella could remember, the Benedicts had gone to their house in Town for winter and for the whole of each winter, entreated the Bingley and Darcy families to accompany them.

"A ball! So soon after we have arrived! Oh, how delightful, Aunt Elizabeth! Is it not, Gemma?" gasped Grace, clapping her hands together in excited agitation. At seventeen, Grace had 'come out' the previous spring and had little opportunity as of yet to flourish in her newfound freedom.

"I cannot wait," sighed Gemma, gaze already dreamy and wistful. "I do believe I shall wear my new primrose gown. It is ever so lovely."

As Grace enthused her agreement, Isabella caught her mother's eyes and they both gave a helpless and loving shake of their head while Jane endeavored to check her sister's artless enthusiasm.

"There is no use in curbing your sister's loquacious tendencies, Janie," admonished Mrs. Bingley, giving her older daughter a knowing glance. Jane agreed with a slight smile and the rest of the time was spent willfully ignoring Gemma and Grace's bold and bright exclamations.

Isabella rode in the carriage with Jane on one side and Dorothy and Catherine across from her. In the carriage behind theirs, Isabella could almost hear Gemma's light peel of laughter rising from the window. Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy traveled with Grace and Gemma as Mr. Darcy and William rode on ahead.

Jane was resting her head upon a cushion while Catherine read under the warmth of a thick rug. It was late November, nearly December and they were off to London on a day that, while sunny, was afflicted with gelid wind in the form of frighteningly harsh gusts of cold.

Swathed in her favorite velvet cloak, Isabella rubbed her hands together. She felt too lazy to reach beneath her seat and pull out the rug beneath, no matter the comfort it would lend her.

The eldest Darcy daughter gazed out the window in ponderous thought. At first glance, one would see a face of impassivity and an expression bland in its pensive reflection. But in Isabella's dark eyes—eerily similar to her mother's and, by that same token, her sisters' as well—, one could discern a faint sign of torment and unease. For this lovely woman knew why her mother had at last put aside her ill favor toward the mindless, scheming society found in London's winter and planned such a trip for the whole of the season. It was an incentive, an earnest effort, for Isabella to find a husband.

For Isabella was of four and twenty years, indeed closer to five and twenty than to the former. And despite having every vestige of beauty still gracing her appearance—for she was as of yet still rooted deeply in the bloom of youth—the fact remained that Isabella was nearly four years senior to Mrs. Darcy's age when the latter had married.

While not yet cause for alarm—for a lady as lovely, wealthy and accomplished as Isabella easily entertained high hopes for the best of matches even in her later years—Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had decided Isabella needed prompting.

What they could not hope to guess was that Isabella had given her heart away at around nineteen years of age and received it back harshly, aching and mangled beyond immediate repair. She was only now, little less than six years later, succeeding in binding it together tightly enough to grant it to the man who would become her husband.

Of course, Isabella's fondness for the man in question six years ago was well-known by her family and most London acquaintances, intimate and not. Mr. Wellington, second son of the wealthy Viscount Combermere and lord of his own estate of Beaumont, had been introduced to Miss Darcy when she had just entered society. She had been at her most innocent then, and in her most naïve state of mind.

Such charm and attentions from a man as highborn and handsome as Mr. Wellington had not yet been bestowed upon the young goddess of country society. He had stolen away her heart and later proven himself a gamer and flighty man of fluctuating whims and careless demeanor.

Her pain had been so obvious and deep at the forced end of their acquaintance that Mrs. Darcy had been persevered upon by her wounded daughter to cut their London season short and return to the safe confines of Pemberley. That excursion to London's winter had been the first and last of the Darcy daughters since Isabella had come of age…until now.

And while Isabella had been endlessly assured by several intimate acquaintances in Town that Mr. Wellington had not been seen in social gatherings in London since then, she could not help but worry that fate would see fit to entwine their paths once more this winter.

It was with such preoccupied thoughts that Isabella wiled away the long journey to Town, in a state of apprehension and dire trepidation.

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	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thank you so much for the reviews! They make my day I know so many new names can be confusing so real quickly, the six cousins/main characters are (in order of age) Isabella Darcy, Jane Bingley, Dorothy Wickham, Catherine Darcy, Georgiana "Gemma" Darcy and Grace Bingley. I introduce quite a few key characters in this chapter (which is longer than the rest) but I will try to clear up all the names next chapter as well. Please let me know if it gets too confusing!**

It had been long since Gemma had entered the townhouse, or at least it seemed so to her estimations, which were fabled for being notoriously hyperbolic. Upon her entrance into society almost a twelvemonth ago, the youngest Miss Darcy had spent three lovely weeks attending London's summer events before returning home to conquer Derbyshire society.

Gemma could not wait to renew old acquaintances she had found so pleasurable the previous summer. She recollected a certain Miss Penelope Winston, a merely pretty girl with fabulous personality. Then with a pout, Gemma recalled the letter she had received few months ago detailing Miss Winston's engagement to a baronet more of prestigious ancestry than fortune. Gemma giggled to herself as she drew up an image of the baronet, a Sir Westbrook, whom both she and Miss Winston had laughed at for his pomp and ludricous flair. Poor Penelope! She was so unfortunate to lack the proper connections; and a lovelier countenance would have done wonders for a potential match.

But there were other acquaintances to be had and Gemma would have the greatest fun introducing pert and pretty Grace to them all. Perhaps by the very end of the winter, both would have courted numerous proposals: what fun that would entail!

Consoled with these thoughts, Gemma opened her armoire to discover what pieces of her wardrobe she had left here. Very little was to date with the fashions but she was overjoyed with the discovery of a beautiful winter gown she had had specifically designed to show off her best attributes, and apparently quite forgotten about. The gown had not yet made its debut but was too lovely to waste upon the Benedict ball; Gemma would save _this_ gown for a truly special event. Her skin fairly tingled with excitement of imagining such an event. How much fun she would have here in London!

The arrival of a certain gentleman quite ruined Gemma's plans for the afternoon. Shortly before supper, a young gentleman by the name of Colonel Kerrigan with whom Mrs. Darcy had established especially strong connections with the last time she was in Town, came calling at her invitation.

He had a handsome enough face, aristocratic and well-proportioned but nothing Gemma had not seen before. The real attraction was in his character; Gemma did not think she had ever met a man who had the ability to converse with four vastly different young women at once while maintaining an optimism and positivity that were almost unimaginable in their buoyancy.

His visit was very well received by Isabella and Catherine and Gemma imagined that even Dorothy (who was perhaps the most boring female Gemma had had the misfortune to encounter) was taken aback by his fearless cheer and endearingly humble self-deprecation.

Colonel Kerrigan managed to solicit an acceptance from the four of them and Mrs. Darcy to join him in the Pump Room the following afternoon. He enthusiastically agreed to the coming of the Bingley women as well after being informed of their presence in Town. As she bid him adieu, Gemma had only pleasant opinions of this new acquaintance and thought him a very good beginning to the season indeed.

"Truthfully, Gemma, I do not care how perfect an entrance I make for if society is so easily led to judgment upon laying eyes on me, I would rather not have anything to do with it."

Gemma scowled at Catherine in frustration and commenced in choosing an appropriate gown for Catherine to wear to the Pump Room. At last, after bemoaning the plainness and simplicity of her sister's wardrobe, she selected one of Catherine's more embellished dresses and held it out defiantly.

Catherine took one look at the confection of silk and shook her head adamantly. "I had been planning on wearing that to the Benedicts' ball," she countered and Gemma nearly fainted.

"You cannot be serious, Cate, you cannot. I will not _let_ you be serious about such a ridiculous statement," gasped her younger sister in profound horror. Catherine glared, Gemma appeared on the verge of total shock and at last, if only to preserve her last vestige of sanity, Catherine donned the gown Gemma insisted upon.

As soon as they entered the Pump Room, the Darcy daughters and Bingley girls were accosted with whispers and gazes. While the elder girls remained impassive and, in Catherine's case, quite ignorant of the stir their arrival had caused (though Dorothy did indeed adopt a rather embarrassed air), Gemma and Grace were wild with the attention they had very happily drawn to themselves.

Colonel Kerrigan made himself known to them at once, striding to their group jovially, sweeping a bow elaborately to Mrs. Bingley and her daughters, whom he had never met and was quickly introduced to. They settled at the table the Colonel had saved and the morning set off to a lovely start.

Gemma hardly knew which young man to fix her attentions on first. There were so many handsome men, doting upon fashionable women or conversing in low voices with each other.

The countenances varied more, some open and pleasing, their amiable natures obvious at a glance. Others were reserved and proud, unsurprising in a society so high-bred and high-minded.

Gemma had little patience for those who thought themselves needlessly superior. In her naïve mind, struck still by the sheen of youth, the prince regent himself could appear and if he were proud and solemn, she would not like him any more than she would an average gentleman who behaved in such a despicable manner.

"Oh!" sighed Grace, wrinkling her button of a nose in acute disgust. "The Timothys have come to entertain us all with their follies."

Gemma winced at Grace's words and agreed with her assessment for walking toward them was a beady-eyed woman Gemma vaguely remembered as Mrs. Timothy and her two large-nosed daughters. Their impressive wealth had been acquired by trade not too many generations before but the family acted as if they were in intimate relations with a personage such as a duke. False airs and empty importance were often cotonations tied with the name Maryann and Clara Timothy, the egotistical daughters of the insupportable Mr. and Mrs. Timothy.

Both daughters were shallow and blunt, their manners uncivil and their taste for gossip unhealthy to the point where Gemma had referred to it among her sisters and cousins as a diseased obsession. While the younger of the two, Clara, was merely a stupid, insipid girl, the elder, Maryann, had a true cruel streak augmenting her sly nature.

It was this unwelcomed trio of women who now approached and Gemma saw that Mrs. Darcy, while the best her daughter knew at maintaining decorum in strenuous situations, had let her control flicker through the thinning of her lips and meaningful sideways glance to Mrs. Bingley.

"My dearest Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Bingley, young ladies, Colonel! What an absolute wonder at your being here! We had not been told to expect such felicity!" cried the snide Mrs. Timothy and she was echoed by more subdued but no less insincere remarks from her daughters.

"Good morning, Mrs. Timothy, Misses Timothy. We only knew ourselves of this trip shortly before we arrived. Rest assured we would have undoubtedly sent word of our incoming season here to you had there been ample enough time." Mrs. Bingley's tone, while civil and in accordance with propriety, was as detached as her gentle nature would permit. Mrs. Darcy's agreement to her sister's statement was pronounced with significantly less warmth, while expertly remaining on the border of civility.

"A season? Your plans then have you remaining in Town for the whole of the winter?" calculated Miss Maryann Timothy.

"At the moment, Miss Timothy," replied Mrs. Darcy shortly and the Colonel, recognizing feelings of dissent and a certain tension pervading the air, launched into a whirlwind of pleasantries.

In due time, Mrs. Timothy and Miss Timothy were thankfully recalled to their circle of acquaintances, even if Miss Clara elected to remain in the company of Miss Bingley, who seemed quite aggrieved at not having the confidence to voice her lack of enthusiasm with the idea. Gemma had long since grown tired of Miss Clara and beseeched Colonel Kerrigan to introduce them to new acquaintances. He complied with his customary eagerness and good humor.

"I do not believe you have had opportunity to meet Lady Margaret, eldest daughter of Earl Ashby. She is a creature more of solitude and reflection than of society and balls but happily, this winter she resides in London," he said to the group. Immediately, Gemma's heart jumped and her eyes widened. For while her interest was not in the least taken by words such as solitude and reflection, the name Ashby had sparked an uncomfortable memory in her mind.

With distaste, she remembered Lady Laura, also a daughter of Earl Ashby and easily the most beautiful woman in all of England. Lady Laura was in unfortunate possession of a nature assimilated to those of the Timothy sisters' in shallowness but she herself was infinitely more powerful and influential than they could ever hope to become.

It was this Lady Laura who had stolen the heart of William Darcy years ago, only to leave him humiliatingly in the public eye of pity when she left for her next conquest. She played the type of games Gemma and Grace were guilty of playing, only more seriously, mercilessly and terribly than they would ever even seek to do. It was quite possible Lady Laura had an older sister, presumably this Lady Margaret.

But Gemma wondered why Colonel Kerrigan had dared bring up such a painful subject to the Darcy family, much less strive to create another unwanted connection between them and the Ashby family! After all, William's infatuation with Lady Laura years ago was common knowledge, if Miss Clara's gleeful expression was anything to compare to. One look in the Colonel's genuine, guileless face though, and Gemma amended her conclusion. It was quite possible that Colonel Kerrigan could have been serving far from London society at the time and was indeed unaware of the publicized affair.

Mrs. Darcy took charge of the situation at once, touching Catherine's hand as a warning to calm her shocked and half-angry expression. She smiled genially at the Colonel as he signaled to a woman far across the room and by all appearances, Mrs. Darcy seemed very pleased to be introduced to Lady Laura's sister.

Gemma winced at the impending event to take place. If Lady Margaret were anything like Lady Laura, there would be an awkwardness difficult to overcome in the following moments for there was no one who despised Lady Laura more than Mrs. Darcy herself.

Gemma stared at the lady who drew near her, followed by a companion of middling age. A woman more diverse in appearance to Lady Laura could not be divined. Rather than the petite, volumptous physique that Lady Laura wore so well, Lady Margaret was easily the tallest woman in the room and stood straight as a tree and as elegantly. Her carriage was aloof and noble, her features plainly aristocratic and while they were proportioned and straight, they lacked any romance or mystery.

Despite the utter lack of enchanting beauty Lady Laura was renowned for, Lady Margaret commanded attention not only by her height but by her hair as well. It was the most interesting color Gemma had ever seen, a rich auburn so bright, it was a dark crimson.

Upon scrutinizing the approaching woman further, Gemma saw her gown was not at all how Gemma remembered Lady Margaret's sister's to be; light, airy and verging on revealing. Instead, it was made of heavy fabric and not flattering in the least, with a conservative neckline and an artless look of cloth merely draped over a statue.

Lady Margaret reached them then and not a shred of her sister's personality could be discerned. Her voice was monotone, her face shaped with lines of boredom and disinterest; there was nothing to recommend the lady by besides wealth, posture and connections. In short, Gemma was utterly relieved for with such an empty shell of a woman, William could find nothing to risk falling in love with _this _Ashby daughter.

Gemma traded a glance with Catherine, who seemed for once to be in agreement with the direction of Gemma's thoughts. There was nothing to fear; William's heart would undoubtedly be safe.

"And will you be attendance at the Benedict ball, Lady Margaret?" asked Mrs. Darcy lightly after introductions and despite her mother's indiscernible façade, Gemma thought she could hear a note of relief in her voice, mimicking Gemma's own.

"I suppose I must, Mrs. Darcy, though in truth balls please me little and dancing not at all," replied the woman coolly. Far from being annoyed, Mrs. Darcy's carefully inexpressive face let through a shadow of an ironic smile.

"I see, Lady Margaret. Indeed, your opinions on such coincide closely with a relative of mine, my sister, Mrs. Lincoln. She, too, would rather escape attending balls at all if she could help it."

It was all Gemma could do to keep a straight face. Grace coughed expressively to hide her laughter, Dorothy and Jane's eyes widened and even dignified Isabella was forced to lift her fan to cover the proof of a smile spreading across her face. As for Catherine—who had never been renowned for particular tact or conduction in society—Gemma dearly hoped Lady Margaret was not looking at _that_ Darcy daughter.

Leave it to their mother to compare a terribly wealthy and influential new acquaintance to the dry, infinitely inferior character of Mrs. Darcy's younger sister, Mary Lincoln, wife of a lowly clerk, a comparison that Lady Margaret would never realize as a veiled and ironic insult.

There was not much Lady Margaret could say to such a statement and, as Gemma was beginning to see was common, Colonel Kerrigan rescued the perilous state of conversation and tried to return it to a semblance of normalcy. Unfortunately, his ignorance on the connection the Darcy family had previously established with regard to Lady Laura caused his change of subject to only drive the tension up higher.

"And your sister, Lady Margaret? I trust she is in as good health as she was the last I saw her," said Colonel Kerrigan and immediately felt it his duty to explain to the two very alert and chagrined families of Darcy and Bingley the character of Lady Laura.

"Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Bingley, Misses Darcy, Misses Bingley, pardon me for neglecting to tell you of Lady Margaret's younger sister, Lady Laura. Singular jewel is Lady Laura, lovely as a rose," he said and Gemma stiffened in alarm at the discomfort his description had furthered.

"And often as thorny," added Lady Margaret dryly and something glittered—akin to interested observation—in her dark eyes. At once, Gemma saw that Lady Margaret knew of the Darcys' connection to her family, had known probably since Colonel Kerrigan had introduced them.

"We are acquainted with Lady Laura," was Mrs. Darcy's only reply and here Mrs. Bingley felt it her duty to intervene and save a floundering Colonel Kerrigan from his state of confusion upon witnessing the cold tone of Mrs. Darcy's voice.

"It is simply a delight to make your acquaintance, Lady Margaret. We have heard of you, of course, due to the intimacy of our connection to your…family a few years back but it is a pleasure to meet you in person," she said warmly, purposefully neglecting to mention Lady Laura herself.

The spark in Lady Margaret's eyes died with the suddenness of a lit candle left outside in a storm; it was obvious the interest that the tense interlude had incurred had dissipated with return to proper conversation. And so ended the introduction to Lady Margaret, daughter of Earl Ashby, and to surmise the conclusion of this unfortunate meeting, Miss Gemma Darcy, at least, was not favorably impressed.

Luckily for the hopes of Gemma and Grace, the talks with the Timothy sisters and Lady Margaret were destined to be the least favorable of the day. For in quick order, Colonel Kerrigan introduced a flirtatious and eager young man by the name of Mr. Kingston whose joie-de-vivre and cheer vaguely reminded Gemma of her Uncle Bingley. Not to mention, his features were not at all sore upon the eyes and indeed quite becoming. Of his manners, there lacked nothing and of his playful nature there could be no doubt because at once he launched into paying the daughters an endless array of compliments.

Grace and Gemma were delighted with this aspect of his character and to Gemma's surprise Jane blushed prettily as he declared her the angel of the room. At long last, he succeeded in wearing down even impersonal Isabella's strong defenses that had withstood the onslaught of many a delicate compliment.

Of them all, only Catherine kept a collected countenance and clear mind, as she was utterly uninterested in his detailed description of her fine, bright eyes and pleasing conversation, preferring instead to converse with the calmer and less ostentatious Colonel Kerrigan.

Gemma was unperturbed by her sister's frank disinterest with Mr. Kingston for she had not yet met a man who preferred Catherine's company—based solely on the foundation of conversation on topics such as theatre and literature—to flirtations and dancing that Gemma had the least inclination to know further.

As it was, Mr. Kingston was everything that was pleasant and whimsical and Gemma was quite taken with _this_ new acquaintance.

Regrettably, he excused himself after a delightful conversation on dancing to return to those he had entered with, a number of which were handsome men. It was in casting her gaze about for a familiar face that Gemma glimpsed a man such as that she had never seen before.

His appearance was striking, stunning, and in all respects so handsome, Gemma felt her mouth physically open in shock. He paced the length of the room with a man who under ordinary circumstances Gemma would have considered pleasing in appearance but who, next to this stranger of a man, looked like the most uncouth and uncivilized of men.

Gemma was quick in grabbing Grace's hand in wonder, her movements not at all studied or discreet. "Look, Gracie!" she hissed under her breath, tossing her hair prettily in the god's direction. "Is he not the most handsome man you have ever laid eyes upon?"

"Who?" asked Grace, sliding her eyes about but such was his figure and face that she needed no more time to understand whom her cousin was blushing crimson over.

In similar raptures of wonderment, Grace too gazed at the man heedlessly before Gemma endeavored to ask Colonel Kerrigan, with a voice as even and clear as possible, the name of the man. She faked a notion of his resembling a past acquaintance of hers but while she fooled Colonel Kerrigan, once her family understood of whom she asked they knew the truth.

A sigh of defeat toward her youngest daughter's incurable tendencies and a warning glance to said daughter escaped from Mrs. Darcy, Isabella and Jane both raised their eyebrows in evident awe and even Catherine had the presence of mind to appear surprised at his perfect appearance. Dorothy and Mrs. Bingley, engaged in what was sure to be _invigorating_ conversation—not likely with a bland girl like Dorothy forming half of it, Gemma reflected sarcastically—did not hear Gemma's question.

"Oh, that jolly fellow?" said Colonel Kerrigan jovially, comically oblivious as to his questioner's true intent. "He be Mr. Logan of Chesire, master of a large estate. His family has owned it for a very long while now and, despite his age, for he is not more than eight and twenty, he is known for being very conscious of propriety and etiquette. This is quite a feat, you know, considering the insane amount of women who find nothing but perfection in him."

At this, Mrs. Darcy gave her youngest child a very smug look but was not at all reassured when Gemma merely smiled and folded her hands in her lap angelically. This more than anything prompted unease in Mrs. Darcy's mind for if she knew anything of her daughter, it was that angelic was the last word she would use to describe her.

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	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I apologize for the wait! I was without Internet for a while. Happy reading! **

In no time at all, the Benedict ball had arrived and the Darcy townhouse was all aflutter. Mr. Darcy was preparing to return to Pemberley the next morning, as an urgent matter had arose regarding a tenant and he was not due back to London for at least another fortnight. The Bingley daughters had brought their toilette and gowns to their Darcy cousins, as everything was a great deal happier with the two families together. Indeed preparing for a ball had long ago been discovered to be the only time all differences were put aside and equal merriment enjoyed all around.

It was into this foreign world Dorothy found herself thrust into and she could only gaze about in shock at the pure strangeness of finding herself in such a situation. They were all crowded into Gemma's room, as it had the best-stocked vanity and most ornaments for last minute accessorizing.

Clinging onto the bedpost was a complaining Grace, while Gemma tied her cousin's corset mercilessly tight. Jane was fixing a last curl of Catherine's hair in place, stepping back and admiring her work. Isabella was glaring at her reflection in the full-length, gilded gold-framed mirror, seemingly discontented with the blush pink dress she wore, even if Dorothy privately thought it was impossible to look more beautiful. This world of perfumes and gowns, of mirrors and spiraling laughter, was one Dorothy had never been privy to.

There was one low-quality mirror among the Wickham sisters at home and it rarely looked upon any one's reflection but the youngest and vainest, Priscilla. As for preparing for assemblies and dances, Dorothy had never been invited to participate in her sisters' enthusiasm and even if she had, it would not have prepared her for the wealth and grandeur _these_ preparations displayed.

Completely uneasy, Dorothy touched the fabric of her best gown, which her mother had bought her for her sixteenth birthday seven years before. Even though it was by far the nicest garment Dorothy owned, it paled hopelessly in comparison with even Catherine's gown, which was the simplest (and if Dorothy was being honest, the prettiest.)

As if sensing Dorothy's self-conscious assessment Catherine looked up and startlingly bright eyes met hers in the mirror. "What a lovely gown, Dorothy! I have the perfect ribbon to wear with it."

At the mention of gown, Gemma spun around after giving Grace's corset a final tug and immediately sprang into action. "Cate, your hair looks lovely, as it always is when Jane is in charge, but now Dorothy needs the vanity. Gracie, be a dear a fetch Catherine's ribbon; I think I know the one, cornflower blue with gold trimming, right Cate?" And without waiting for her sister's nod of agreement, Gemma pushed Dorothy onto the stool with little ceremony.

"Now then," she said triumphantly. "Inspiration for how her hair should be done anyone?"

"No, no," chided Jane gently. "Hair is my expertise. I know just how to do it too." Willingly, Gemma gave control of Dorothy's hair up and cheerfully accepted the ribbon from Grace.

"Just wait until you are all ready, Dorothy. You shan't recognize yourself, I swear by Mama's jewels."

Indeed, by the time Jane's gentle fingers, Isabella's calculated comments and a general flood of Gemma's enthusiasm had been unleashed upon the poor, unprepared Miss Wickham, the silent victim was quite unrecognizable.

She looked so fine, so very much a gentleman's daughter, that Dorothy could almost forget her surname was Wickham and not Darcy or Bingley. A reprimanding tap from Isabella on her shoulders immediately startled Dorothy into straightening her shoulders as she had been taught.

A pensive Gemma added a simple silver bracelet to Dorothy's wrist and clucked her tongue in satisfaction. "Perfect," she said simply and Dorothy felt her cheeks warm at the assessment.

"Off we go then," announced Catherine briskly and flashed one of her genuine, sardonic smiles because after laughing at Dorothy the whole of the time she had been fawned over, she now had to admit the finished result might just be worth the excessive attention.

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They arrived in the Darcy's handsome carriage and upon descending with William's assistance, Dorothy realized that the flamboyancy and elegance she had witnessed in Gemma's room and on her cousins was at the same level as everything else her shocked eyes took in.

Women in outrageously feathered hats and exquisite gowns in the boldest and bravest of colors. Men preening like proud peacocks encased in their perfect appearances. Immediately, Gemma felt the inadequacy of her dress but William, as if understanding her fears, squeezed her hand once before handing Catherine down from the carriage. Mrs. Darcy also recognized the fear in her niece's eyes and assured her that she would be tailored for gowns in preparation for the next balls the very next day.

The Darcy family followed the flow of London's highest society in town for the winter and Dorothy marveled at every new sight, every bird-like trill of laughter. At last, they reached the foyer, where an older and obviously well bred couple welcomed them with kisses and genuine salutations.

The personal greetings exchanged, Mr. Darcy signaled a timid Dorothy forward. "Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, my niece from -shire, Miss Dorothy Wickham." True to their good breeding, not a drop of surprise showed upon either face, though Dorothy could imagine their private sentiments.

"Ah, yes, Miss Wickham, it is a pleasure to meet you. Elizabeth mentioned there would be an addition to the family party," said Mrs. Benedict warmly and Dorothy curtsied to the both of them, murmuring thanks as Mr. Benedict too greeted her.

The first obstacle overcome with no incident, Dorothy continued on in Catherine's wake, drawing comfort from her cousin's steady, unimpressed presence.

The family wandered apart, beginning with Mr. and Mrs. Darcy to greet a smiling couple across the room Catherine whispered as being Lord and Lady Archer, the latter of which was Mr. Darcy's younger sister and Gemma's namesake. Isabella was led away by an exuberant Mr. Kingston with requests for her first dance and Gemma and Grace wasted no time in scampering off to pursue their pleasures. In the end, Dorothy stood mystified by the vast quantity of movement and noise about her and drew closer to Catherine and Janie. Then she glimpsed a familiar pair of young women veering their way and before she could breathe a word of warning, Catherine had taken hold of her arm and was fairly dragged her off, leaving a scowling Jane to administer the perfunctory greetings to the Timothy sisters.

"Poor Janie," giggled Catherine as they reached a safe distance from Miss Maryann and Clara. "She is far too civil to tell those wretched girls exactly what she, and everyone else for that matter, thinks of them."

Dorothy had to smile at Catherine's carefree, decidedly uncivil manner and, stroking back a lock of her hair nervously, prepared to face the next obstruction in her path.

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In a matter of five minutes, Dorothy had been snatched away by William, who professed a desire for her first dance that would not be suppressed, despite hearing her marked refusals against the mere thought. The music had not commenced as of yet but he had already whirled her away to teach her the steps as privately as they could manage. This left Catherine standing alone with Colonel Kerrigan, continuing a light conversation.

Soon a rather awkward silence descended, encouraged by their sizable gaps of knowledge of the other's character. All Catherine had ascertained in their short acquaintance was that Colonel Kerrigan, for all his positives, was very sadly not a great reader nor captivated by theatre and thus provided little of interest for her to converse upon.

Colonel Kerrigan's swift eyes alighted on a rather handsome, tall man with proud features and a noble mien, who paced the dance floor alone. With a jovial hand signal, the Colonel brought the man forward.

"Miss Catherine, I should like to introduce you to my dear childhood friend. He is of singular taste in literature, a topic I prove to be sorrowfully inept in engaging you. Here he comes now," whispered Colonel Kerrigan as the man deftly approached.

"Ah, Vale! I have another proficient reader to acquaint you with. Miss Catherine Darcy, please meet one of my dearest friends His Lordship the Earl of Stratham." At the Colonel's exclamation, Catherine looked at the tall, imposing figure with renewed surprise, receiving his dignified bow and trying to do justice with a sweeping curtsy of her own.

"An honor, Your Lordship," she said politely, mustering every rule of etiquette her tutors had endeavored to ingrain in her thoughts, thoughts that rarely stilled for something as frivolous as proper conduct with peers of certain rank.

"Likewise, Miss Darcy," said he with a slight smile, as if he recognized her efforts and was amused by them.

"Ah, but the Miss Darcy is another, sir. I am merely Miss Catherine," she corrected and he received knowledge of his error with mild countenance, not at all embarrassed.

"Well, merely Miss Catherine, it is an honor."

"I will leave you to your company then. I have urgent summons from Lady Margaret. If you will excuse me." So saying, Colonel Kerrigan sauntered away, leaving a baffled Catherine—who privately could not imagine Lady Margaret engaging in anything urgent—and annoyed Lord Stratham.

"You will forgive my friend, Miss Catherine. He is unused to the decorum of society or perhaps cares not for its whims; I am afraid he does not understand the error of leaving two recent acquaintances to their sole company. As he has regrettably done so, it seems we are unwilling victims to his slight of manners."

Catherine laughed, quite astonished to be in the undivided company of Lord Stratham. However, her bright character was not at all subdued by this turn of events as accepting fate for what it was had the fortune of being one of her fortes.

"In the few moments Colonel Kerrigan had deigned to share with me of your character, he mentioned your fondness of literature, Your Lordship. Perhaps we had best commence on common ground?" said she.

"At least he has equipped us with a subject. Yes, Miss Catherine, I am excessively fond of books. To the point where I many times prefer the company of such articles to that of people," confessed he, with unperturbed countenance and the languid manner of one who is used to ease and having his way.

For minutes later, they discussed favorites and newest, debating good-naturedly over the definition of classics. But then the first dance began and they were forced to concede the need to dance so as to appear sufficiently entertained by their lovely hosts.

Quite disappointedly, Catherine realized she must relinquish the conversation so he may engage in a dance with a particular friend of his choosing and politely told him so. He laughed then, a true, ringing laugh, and instead replied, "Why must we terminate such enthralling conversation? Surely discussion is permitted upon the dance floor and I fully intend to do so, if you would do me the honor."

After realizing he was indeed asking for her first dance, she readily agreed and was led onto the dance floor, eyes wide with surprise and the beginnings of a more powerful emotion.

Immediately after taking her place with His Lordship, she felt weighty stares and crushing whispers all aimed toward them. He gave a lazy smile at the intense murmurings and said, "It seems our appearance has caused a stir. But I do believe we were in the midst of a debate on Shakespeare, which I confess to find infinitely more captivating."

"I am in agreement. Shall we continue?" And with an impish raise of her eyebrows and a glimmer in his expression, they danced the whole of the set and retired from each other's company with very high thoughts of the other.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Dancing with Lord Stratham, were you?" said Isabella in Catherine's ear, suddenly appearing by her side.

Catherine merely nodded and volunteered no specifics and Isabella, proper to the point of ridiculousness, pressed no further. In truth, her unabated curiosity was desperate for information but she pressed down any gossiping notions that arose and simply threaded her arm with Catherine's. She could feel the gazes of many upon the two of them and did not fail to understand why; Catherine's dance with Lord Stratham had caused a splash, rocking the tranquil waters of the ball.

With a small smile of defeat, Isabella spied vivacious Gemma dancing her second set with a young and handsome man, which was the most viable prediction imaginable to anyone who knew her well. The youngest Darcy had entertained the gazes of many thus far and seemed set to do so for the rest of the evening.

Isabella herself had danced with Mr. Kingston, a wonderfully cheerful man whose countenance remained unperturbed and his spirits high no matter what she threw his way. He was a most devoted admirer, she knew, and yet he lacked the seriousness and want for deep discussion that she required. Ah well, no man was perfect and she welcomed his attentions while they lasted. The evening continued on.

**The Benedict ball will continue into the next chapter. Please, please REVIEW!**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: This is the second half of the Benedict ball. Hope you enjoy!**

The evening was growing late but it seemed the true festivities had only just begun. Gemma's feet had long since grown tired with endless dances and she welcomed her father's intrusion into the next set.

"A dear friend of mine requests to be introduced to you, Gemma. He is the second son of my cousin—the late Lord Matlock—and you are the only of your siblings that has not yet met him. Perhaps you will remember the current Lord Matlock, who spent Michaelmas years ago at Pemberley. It is his younger brother who requests meeting you this evening. Jane, do come with us," said Mr. Darcy as both young women—Jane had been standing quietly nearby— took a proffered arm and allowed themselves to be led from the dance to another portion of the ballroom.

To an elegant man they were led, exceedingly well-bred and gentleman-like in manner, who immediately upon Mr. Darcy's introduction proved his civility with enthused professions of their beauty and manners, of which he assured them he had heard much.

Not at all dismayed at receiving attentions from such an elegant, pleasing man, the cousins allowed themselves to be entertained by him and along the way, Jane forgot her timidity and Mr. Fitzwilliam (for this was the name with which he was introduced), upon hearing Gemma regrettably engaged for the next set, announced desire to dance with Miss Bingley if she would have him.

Gemma fought the desire to accent this last comment with a traditional roll of her eyes. What fool would Jane be if she countered the attentions of the son of an earl? He may be a second son but he was a son all the same.

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For a certain Miss Wickham, the night had been full of unexpected happenings. Her former desire had been to receive as small degree of attention to her person as possible, for she knew her character would betray her inferior birth no matter how prettily her cousins had styled her and, by this same token, she knew her presence as protégé of the Darcy family must provoke negativity against the family. Indeed, she had planned to remain in Catherine's shadow until the dancing began—under no uncertain circumstances was Dorothy to actually dance—then equalize her time between Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, with the thought that the former's gentle nature and the latter's keen eye and authoritative figure would form a sort of protection.

Instead, before the dancing had yet to commence, William had spirited his cousin away with insistence of having her first dance and refused any pleading entreaty Dorothy had made to the negative. The dance itself did not pass terribly for while it was more elegant and elaborate than Dorothy had previously known, she had long since learned the more basic form and it was only a few missteps and twinkles in William's eyes before she had sufficiently mastered it.

On the effect of their shared dance on society, Dorothy rather wondered at her cousin's popularity for no sooner had she joined the dance with him—and at the time, she had thought their dancing unobtrusive—than several glares from matrons and young women alike quickly severed any secrecy of the event. Catherine had caught Dorothy's eye and winked, plaintively showing her displeasure toward the disappointed young woman closest to her.

Fixed by sullen and resentful glares as she was, Dorothy had little enjoyment from the dance though her partner was flawless in his steps and very enjoyable in nature. She found her previous suspicions toward William having once been lost in love most likely to be correct for aside from his dance with Dorothy, he danced three others, all with women of his family. She saw at once that he was not willing to partake in flirtatious activity with women, though he was kind to them all when talking, and his emotions were carefully guarded, betraying nothing beyond gaiety and ease despite Dorothy's notions to the contrary.

After the dance, William relinquished her cousin to the safety of Mrs. Darcy and for the following hour Dorothy's former plan for the evening went according to how she had expected. This was to be altered once again, however, when Colonel Kerrigan boisterously requested her next dance and, with Mrs. Darcy's observant and probing eyes on her, as well as the judgment of those who had observed this proposal to dance, Dorothy had no choice but to comply.

The dance was easier to enjoy than the one with William as Colonel Kerrigan was less a coveted partner than the younger Mr. Darcy for his comparative lesser wealth. All the same, Dorothy could feel the first ripple of disdained surprise when they began to dance but his good cheer and earnest discussion kept the thoughts from her mind and Dorothy found she was able to relax in the warmth of his presence.

Alas, this was not to be the end of her endeavors—which required her constant scrutiny towards her conduction in this superior society and whose trials leeched the very strength from her bones—for the Colonel dragged her along as he conferred with William.

"Ah! Mr. William Darcy, your cousin is an uncommonly superb dancer! Such a pleasure!" said he brightly. William afforded Dorothy a lift of his eyebrows and she blushed prettily in answer.

"Is that so?" he mused in reply and was heartily assured by Colonel Kerrigan that indeed, it was so.

"If Miss Wickham would not mind my taking advantage of her company in this atrocious way, I would beg you both allow me to introduce you, William, to a certain acquaintance of mine, one Miss Wickham has already had the fortune to meet," said the Colonel heartily and Dorothy, supposing the proposition was better than wiling away more time in the company of chaperones, gave her consent.

However, the unexpectedly genuine smile that had graced her lips quickly dissolved upon realizing whom Colonel Kerrigan now led them to. For he directed William and Dorothy toward a statuesque figure standing alone, obviously aloof and disinterested, who looked very much like the Lady Margaret Dorothy had been introduced to at the Pump Room.

While at first ignorant on the situation regarding Lady Margaret's younger sister, Lady Laura, and William, Dorothy had quickly been informed by Catherine of the particulars soon after the introduction at the Pump Room. Before this explanation, Dorothy had been alternately impressed by Lady Margaret's dominating, serious character and unimpressed by her inability to appear interested and social. After the explanation, she had formed a healthy dislike for the Ashby family, for with one sister taciturn and aloof and the other culpable of wounding William's heart, there was little to like.

Dorothy assumed Colonel Kerrigan had been stationed away from London society at the time of the grievance between William and Lady Laura, and attributed this gap in knowledge to the bringing up of the subject and the acquaintance during the Pump Room. But now he was introducing William himself to the elder sister of the Darcy son's heartbreak, leaving Dorothy to feel distinctly uncomfortable with the situation.

Why, she wondered in exasperation and no mild tinge of horror, must it be her to accompany Colonel Kerrigan into this following torture? Why could it not be Isabella, whose decorum and perfect manners would certainly make the best of the situation, or Catherine, whose light remarks and sharp retorts would no doubt ease the following meeting? Even Gemma would be more appropriate for this incoming introduction, as her humorous complaints and flighty ways would render the situation more agreeable to all. Instead it would be Dorothy, who could offer little comfort to William and no service to elevating the tension, who must shoulder the brunt of this alone.

"You must remember Lady Margaret, Miss Wickham, from the Pump Room the other day! William, Lady Margaret is the eldest daughter of Earl Ashby. She is a particularly close acquaintance of mine, being of serious but grounded disposition, welcomed in this nest of trilling bluebirds."

Colonel Kerrigan's metaphorical declaration surprised Dorothy, who thought him as fond of this inane chatter and ridiculous nonsense—the very foundation of London society—as his lively but honest character would allow.

As she thought this, Dorothy glanced sideways at William and saw her guess of his reaction fulfilled. Even his easy and pure character cracked under the strain of such awkwardness and his discomposure was evident in the sudden pallor of his face and the nervous movements of his fingers.

Lady Margaret looked over as Colonel Kerrigan, Dorothy and William approached and noted them with marked boredom on her face. She appeared not to recognize William, which only heightened his discomfiture and Dorothy's foreboding.

Genial as always, the Colonel plowed ahead with his introductions and had the satisfaction of at last seeing something akin to interest flicker in Lady's Margaret's inscrutable eyes.

"Yes, Colonel Kerrigan. I have heard much of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy," she said simply and yet her voice was layered in a sort of curiosity and almost amusement at Colonel Kerrigan's uninformed mind and William's obvious unhappiness with the situation. She recognized Dorothy with an unadorned "Good evening, Miss Wickham," for which Dorothy was glad as she could not stand another snide remark or self-satisfied sneer.

As the conversation progressed with the speed of a dying tortoise—and about as interesting—Dorothy stood silently at William's side, mortified at being constricted into this meeting, one of which she had no wish to witness, much less be a part of.

For the following tense interlude, an oblivious Colonel Kerrigan engaged them all in a severely one-sided conversation as his three counterparts supplemented his tries at discussion but little and utterly ignored each other. Lady Margaret, her face drawn and now even a little affected by William's silence and the true awkwardness of the situation; William, eyes pained and yet curious as he surveyed the lady before him, as if trying to find similarities to her and her sister; Dorothy, straining to come up with an excuse to leave this union and race for the protection of the rest of the peoples of the Benedict ball, who now likened a safe haven in comparison to _them_.

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The night was drawing to an end and Gemma was thoroughly exhausted, though her mind was invigorated and delighted with what the ball had offered. She now sat on the side with Grace, sipping much-needed drinks and regretfully turning down occasional offers to dance, as her abused feet burned at the mere thought.

The cousins were comparing the mental notes they made, reveling in the prospect of the fun to be had this winter. Both admitted Mr. Kingston as being a fine figure and by far one of the most charming and youthful company they had met. Yet it was obvious his intentions laid in the direction of Miss Isabella Darcy and neither Gemma nor Grace fancied competing with the eldest Darcy daughter.

Colonel Kerrigan's character was decided to be most obliging and amiable but his appearance, by no means plain but neither particularly interesting, and wealth—while certainly passing, it did not do justice to their wild, youthful dreams—counted against him as the foremost gentleman they wished to conquer in their competition. They matched him up with Catherine with giggling ease and pronounced the two engaged in the near future.

As for themselves, the cousins needed the other's output to finalize their decision. Since they had been allowed to dance with the young men in Derbyshire, they had made it an unannounced game to select one gentleman to win affection from. So far, Gemma and Grace had always succeeded in the end and neither—Gemma especially— foresaw this winter any different.

"It shan't surprise you, Grace, but I have decided on Mr. Logan as my conquest. He is _so_ handsome and young still and yet such a gentleman too! I have taken the liberty of asking some of his closer acquaintances of his character—his manners are perfection, though you know I do care not as much for _them_ as say, Papa or Isabella, but his sense of socially correct or incorrect is something to be worked upon as it is positively _ancient_ in its strictness. He is so stringently proper, he could hardly give his dance partner (not me unfortunately) his _hand_. His affections toward ladies are not pronounced in the least and indeed, he seems disparaging towards most but fear not, my cousin, I _shall _succeed."

Gemma's coquettish, satisfied speech drew a ringing laugh from Grace. As her cousin laughed, Gemma reminisced on what she had observed of Mr. Logan during the course of the ball. She frowned as she recollected his passivity to all his female acquaintances' attractions and his detached character. The challenge he posed thoroughly contented her urge for competition.

"I have no doubt, Gemma, of your ability to wear down the strongest, most impervious defenses of any man you set your sights on. Nor am I surprised with your choice. I would wish you good luck in ensnaring the attentions of one as eligible as he but am quite aware you do not need it." Grace laughed some more and then sobered, though her bright blue eyes danced.

"I, instead, of chosen one more of elegance than beauty, though to be sure his figure is as fine as our Mr. Kingston. For Gemma, I have decided upon securing the affections and attentions of one Mr. Fitzwilliam."

Gemma's eyes widened as she searched her memory until she found her introduction to the illustrious lord prior that evening. He had been a striking figure of a gentleman, not as handsome as Lord Stratham whom she had glimpsed in his shocking dance with Catherine, but with a noble mien and dignified regard. Indeed, Grace had set her goal high though no higher than Gemma herself.

Grace anxiously awaited Gemma's response and was gratified with, "I do believe, Miss Grace Bingley, the game has commenced."

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	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Just a short little chapter to clear up some of the characters' personalities. Enjoy!**

To the disappointment of the Darcy sisters, the following day brought nothing but an unfortunate request for an early luncheon and walk about Town with Mrs. Timothy and her daughters. The lucky Bingley women escaped the odious invitation, begging leave due to a predesigned meeting with Edward Bingley, the youngest Bingley son and involved in the highest straits of law in London. Miss Wickham, not in the presence of mind to ignore the Timothys' open scorn toward her, blamed a severe but false headache restricting her indoors for the morning.

This left one very discontented Mrs. Darcy in the company of the ridiculous Mrs. Timothy for the whole of the morning, the latter who brought only complaints and blatant ignorance. Mrs. Darcy's daughters were restricted to the whims of Miss Timothy and Miss Clara.

"I declare yesterday night's ball a true horror," sniffed Miss Timothy, immediately after they had all exited the Darcy home for a walk. "The Benedicts are the most selfish annoyance that ever stained London society, what with their intolerable pride and false wealth."

Catherine promptly choked upon hearing Miss Timothy perfectly describe herself and then again on the pretense of disguising her laughter as she understood the insupportable woman had tried to pin this falsity on the Benedicts.

The irony lost its humor on Mrs. Darcy, who flushed angrily at hearing her dear friend described in this lowly manner. "Not at all," she snapped heatedly. "I find them a distinguished sort of family, not at all above their station and as generous as one could wish. I like them prodigiously."

Again Catherine was forced to employ the act of choking to hide her amusement of her mother's quick retort and this time, she received a warning glance from Isabella and a snide one from Miss Timothy.

Mrs. Timothy sensed the sharp resentment of Mrs. Darcy directed toward her eldest daughter's words and deemed the situation fit for interference.

"Rather, Maryann, I do believe the ball went as nicely as a ball marking the beginning of the season could be. You know they become better as the winter progresses and more people attend, certainly more illustrious than last night's unfortunate society. Besides, your sister had the good fortune of dancing with Mr. Kingston—no doubt he recognized her natural beauty." She looked fondly at Miss Clara, whose plain features were marred by a large nose, and smiled in a way that turned her face from unpleasant to frightening.

This time, no amount of choking could effectively hide Catherine's laughter and Isabella was obliged to glare at her sister, insisting on civility at all times with a single glance of her dark eyes. With another burst of laughter, Catherine recognized strong amusement dancing in Isabella's own eyes, even as she reprimanded Catherine for hers.

With a skillful return to decency, as Catherine's display had provoked Mrs. Timothy's ire, Isabella asked, "I would not quite call the ball devoid of illustrious society, Mrs. Timothy. If I remember correctly, there were several attendants of notable worth, including the Lord Stratham and Mr. Fitzwilliam among others."

Mrs. Timothy's expression immediately cleared and Catherine wanted to kick her sister for mentioning Lord Stratham. "Oh yes," said the older woman snidely. "His Lordship was certainly an attendant to note. His prestige was every bit as great as his power—not to mention wealth—and his appearance as handsome as I could imagine. But he danced little, preferring conversation, it seemed, to exertion."

Catherine winced and shot Isabella a well-deserved glare of her own as she realized what would come next. Indeed, here it came, from smirking Miss Timothy. "If _my_ memory is not faulty, he indeed deigned to dance the first dance with a member of our party. Is it not so, Miss Catherine? Surely you would be the best qualified to tell us how well he dances."

Gemma's impulsive nature jumped to her sister's defense immediately, for she had been uncharacteristically observant thus far and refused to allow her sister snidely mocked in this way by an impossibly insufferable young lady.

"At least _someone_ of esteem danced with Catherine. It is more than some can boast."

Gemma had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Timothy redden at the inflection behind her pointed words and Isabella was once again obliged to smooth the situation. Mrs. Darcy—impossibly exhausted with the follies and idiocies of the Timothy daughters—walked ahead, forcing Mrs. Timothy to hurry in a decidedly undignified manner to accompany her.

"Have you heard rumor of other acquaintances coming to Town this winter?" Isabella asked. In this unfortunate instance, her insistence toward politeness would end up working against her for Miss Timothy and Miss Clara exchanged a meaningful, gleeful glance.

"Well, among others, there is one acquaintance from many years back that I do believe will interest all three of you very much. He arrived in London a fortnight past but was obliged to return to his estate two days before your arrival. Rumor has it he shall be in attendance at the Kingstons' ball next weekend," said Miss Clara excitedly.

"And everyone knows rumor rarely has it correct," muttered Catherine, under her breath but heard by all. Miss Clara gave a dissatisfied pout and Miss Timothy happily took up the remnants of her sister's story.

"Anyway, as Clara began to describe, he is an old acquaintance but his change in character is so great, he could almost be considered new."

At last Catherine's interest was piqued by the Timothy trivialities and she listened closely, or as closely as her humorous, distracted mind would permit.

"He last partook in London's winter society quite some time ago; it must be around six years now. At the time, many decreed him careless and absent of manners, though others—including some among us at this very moment—thought his unusual slight of proper conduct all that was natural and charming. At long last he was recalled back to the country, where he was set managing his own estate.

It has taken nigh upon six years for him to return to London's winter with a design—many say—to choose a wife. He is very much a changed man, charming still but with a broader grasp of conduct and vastly improved in mind and manners, or so people say," shared Miss Timothy and she delighted in drawing out the suspense, a strategy with which Catherine was annoyed and ill-impressed. Thankfully, blunt Clara Timothy decided the description had winded on long enough and interjected with, "Oh, for heaven's sake Maryann, you're not a frail old lady on her deathbed. It is Mr. Wellington, second son of Viscount Combermere, come back from Beaumont!"

Such was the shock the exclamation brought that Catherine was forced to freeze in her path. Gemma bumped up against her and, turning to face her younger sister, Catherine saw the horror in Gemma's normally spirited eyes. They both felt the social brutality and utter lack of civility the Timothy sisters had betrayed. As for the two culpable sisters themselves, Catherine could see they felt nothing but the rush of thrill that came with changing someone's life with a few raw words.

There was a heavy silence, too powerful to apprehend and too thick to slice with even the best of Catherine's retorts or the brightest of Gemma's laughter.

With an enormous effort of will, Catherine turned to Isabella and felt physically pained at the torment that battled in her elder sister's eyes. The news of her former love returning to town had struck Isabella deeply and reawakened past pain and difficult memories that should never have been dusted from the age of heartbreak.

It was all Catherine could do to try to forget Mr. Wellington herself. Constantly breaching etiquette and dangerously fond of women and gambling, Mr. Wellington had won lesser women than Isabella Darcy over with an unfailing charm and handsome youth, as well as the promise of wealth. The second of five sons of the wealthy and influential Viscount Combermere, younger brother of Baron Combermere, Mr. Wellington had succeeded in doing what no other—to this day, nearly six years hence—had; capturing Miss Darcy's notoriously cautious affections and stealing her carefully guarded heart.

Even with discovery of his careless character and ill-fated drinking and gambling habits, Isabella was so lost to love it took weeks before she was sufficiently dissuaded by her fearful mother and disapproving father that Mr. Wellington's company was best to forgo.

Though Catherine had been young at the time of this incident, she remembered well Isabella's broken spirits and the constant sheen of tears in her eyes, eyes that occasionally still clouded over with painful memories.

Meeting Miss Timothy's abrasive, self-congratulating stare with her own, Catherine was hard put to control her temper towards the sisters and barely restrained the instinct to snatch Isabella and escape from Town.

In all honesty, Catherine did not believe even this mature Isabella—for she had been innocent and naïve then, terribly young to the ways of the world—could withstand Mr. Wellington's company, pressed as she was by the past. How ironic, how cruel fate was, bringing together a woman and a man whom had a shared past all ardently wanted to forget. Both of who had not returned to London's winter in many years, now impulsively returning to winter society only to converge path's again. With a rush of decision and a frown, Catherine decided she rather abhorred fate.

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	8. Chapter 8

**AN: The Kingston ball! Hope you guys enjoy it!**

From the first moment they stepped into the Kingston family's lovely townhouse, Isabella felt her sisters close in behind her. She turned and met Gemma's encouraging gaze, glimpsed Catherine dissect those in the room with a measured and critical eye. She knew the elder of the two searched for Mr. Wellington—how bitter, how painful his name was in her mind, after so long of suppressing all thought of him—while the younger only sought to give her comfort .

The eldest Darcy was grateful for both her sisters, their silent support dearer to her than her private nature would allow express.

As it happened, she had little need of their presence for Mr. Kingston—who had finished his duty in greeting the guests—spirited her away for the first dance.

"You look singularly lovely this evening, Miss Darcy. I do hope it is for my sake," he said brightly, whirling her near the start of the line.

Isabella allowed a smile, as his charming phrases and doting attention were impossible to ignore. He was a man of lavish tastes and the money to suit them, of simple personality and the eagerness of untried youth. She liked him prodigiously, to quote her mother's comical statement on the Benedicts a few days before.

"It would not do for our Mr. Kingston to form a egotistical view of himself. Thus you must understand my meaning when I say that, no, Mr. Kingston, my 'singular loveliness' as you phrase it, is not for your sake nor any save that but my own vanity," she replied lightly and was gratified by his expression of mock injury, though the smile remained a genuine fixture on his face.

"Ah, Miss Darcy! Your words wound me! If your beauty is not heightened for me and I know you for sure to be in possession of no visible vanity, then perhaps you would allow me to venture a guess at some of the new men that have come to the ball? For example, Lord Didier has arrived or, more probably, Mr. Wellington."

It took him less than a second after his voice had faded to realize his trespass into the past and discomfort. Isabella glanced away swiftly for a moment, her features endeavoring to collect themselves and then, her face a tight mask of impassivity, she returned to the awkward state of Mr. Kingston, who was floundering in the depths of his gaffe.

"If you would allow sharp critique, Mr. Kingston, I would allow myself to say that Lord Didier is a trifle old for my tastes. I prefer the company of younger men," she said smoothly.

He appeared thoroughly relieved by her glossing over the gap he had inadvertently opened and was only too eager to play along. "Younger, you say? Miss Darcy, I assure you I am very much the younger compared to Baron Didier!"

"That is no admirable accomplishment, Mr. Kingston, as Baron Didier is older than my father," responded Isabella with no little amusement coloring her tone. With that, they continued their dance.

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With Isabella quickly distracted in the form of Mr. Kingston, Gemma and Catherine split into different directions. Catherine spent the first twenty minutes refusing offers to dance and trying to be discreet as she combed the rooms for a sight of Lord Stratham. His figure was so tall and intimidating she did not see how she could not spot him unless he was absent.

At last, frowning and dissatisfied as she acknowledged his absence, Catherine accepted an earnest entreaty from Colonel Kerrigan to dance. He was a good enough partner, though Catherine held no pretense for extreme fondness of dancing; that field was dominated by Gemma, whose very contentment seemed centered around the activity.

"I do not see Lord Stratham in attendance this evening," she at last said as lightly and unobtrusively as she could. She need not have worried of the Colonel observing her studied disinterest; he was as blind to these intricacies as the general man and answered her obliviously and spiritedly.

"Ah, Vale often times chooses remaining at home to read or some other utterly dull activity that manages to capture his attention. No doubt he's doing so at this very moment," he shared with a merry roll of his eyes. Catherine's spirits plummeted and, misinterpreting the disappointment creasing her face, he quickly added, "No disrespect intended, Miss Catherine. I know you to profess deep fondness for reading but I just cannot understand the preference of a book over London's exhilarating society."

Exhilarating was not a word Catherine would use to describe this hell disguised in fashionable gowns, giggling maidens and scheming mothers; fastidious, dreary, cruel, judgmental, yes; exhilarating, no.

She gave vent to a great sigh and resumed a light and simple conversation with Colonel Kerrigan.

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"Ladies, Mr. Logan of Florentine in Devonshire. Logan, Miss Darcy, Miss Georgiana Darcy and Miss Grace Bingley." Mr. Kingston introduced exuberantly. Isabella, Gemma and Grace simultaneously dipped into smooth, practiced curtsies. The object of the introduction gave a ceremonious bow, a trifle too stiff to be friendly, and a standard greeting, unadorned with pleasantries.

Mr. Kingston and Mr. Logan conversed for a few minutes, aided by an occasional insert from Isabella. Grace and Gemma stood idly by, the latter berating herself for not mustering the courage to talk with the intimidating, handsome man. She barely managed to keep her face devoid of emotion when she observed Mr. Logan's regard for Isabella growing throughout the duration of the conversation.

Perhaps Mr. Kingston saw this too, for he said, "Ah! The next set is beginning and I have a mind to dance it. Which of these three lovely ladies in my company would deign to dance with me?"

It was a potentially dangerous situation, as Gemma was well aware he wished to spirit Isabella away from the handsome attention of Mr. Logan but there were two other women to consider. Isabella did not reply to this entreaty, presumably to avoid arising awkwardness or—and at the occurrence of this thought Gemma's jealous anger flared—to spend more time with Mr. Logan. Gemma too, did not have an overwhelming urge to reply to Mr. Kingston's request to the positive.

Sensing this unspoken refusal from the two Darcy sisters, Grace Bingley found it necessary to salvage Mr. Kingsley's pride and replied that she, if the others refrained, would accept his proposal.

With a satisfied smile that betrayed none of his unease in leaving his coveted Isabella to the mercy of Mr. Logan, (for Gemma, experienced as she was in the affairs of men, could see in his eyes this was his honest reaction) Mr. Kingston danced away with Grace.

Gemma immediately felt the tense state of the situation she found herself in. Isabella, obviously attracted to Mr. Logan, Mr. Logan, obviously attracted to Isabella, Gemma, standing awkwardly between the two. This was _not_ to be borne!

"Do you enjoy dancing, Mr. Logan?" she asked archly. He at last turned a beautiful blue eye upon her. "Not at all, Miss Georgiana," he replied, neglecting to use the shortened form Gemma had requested as she always did at the commencing of an acquaintance.

Gemma sighed heavily to herself as he turned back to Isabella and creased her forehead. This would take effort indeed.

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The Kingston ball was not going at all as Catherine Darcy had hoped. She had been forced, after warding off several young men seeking only her substantial dowry, to escape to the chill of the night, out on a large terrace.

After a few valued minutes of quiet and a serene peace that comes with being utterly undisturbed, Catherine acknowledged the need for warmth, as she could hardly feel her fingers due to the wintery air.

It was in returning to the main ballroom that she was struck with such shock, she froze on the threshold of the balcony. Leaning against a marble pillar, looking older but as or even more disarmingly handsome as ever, languidly fixing his glittering eyes on one single woman, was Mr. Wellington. Catherine felt her blood run cold—or cold_er_—as she saw the object of his gaze.

Isabella stood in the bright light of the ballroom, laughing as she talked with a very handsome man (Catherine seemed to recall him as a Mr. L… Lawson, perhaps?) Gemma stood there too and from Catherine's vantage point, seemed to wear a distinct pout, the kind she wore when she was not getting her way.

Stepping inside the warmth of the room, Catherine could not tear her eyes from Mr. Wellington, who in turn could not seem to look away from Isabella.

No, no! This would not do! Catherine would not allow this man to woe Isabella ever again, if she could help it. For surely Isabella would not be able to withstand another assault from this man. Her heart was too tender for such vile manipulation.

With a glower that frightened a petite young woman near her, Catherine remembered Miss Timothy's words: "He is very much a changed man, charming still but with a broader grasp of conduct and vastly improved in mind and manners, or so people say."

A scowl more fearsome than the previous glower overtook Catherine's features. People, she reflected with no little poisonous tinge to her thoughts, were intolerably stupid. Mr. Wellington may wear a mask of civility and propriety now but it was impossible to assume the man so changed from his previous nature that he was now agreeable and pleasant. No, he was not only guilty of past misdemeanors; to Catherine he was also guilty of present fraud.

"Miss Darcy! Have you swallowed a lemon?" asked a thinly amused voice.

Catherine started, the only voice that could possibly bring her consolation in this moment indeed speaking. Lord Stratham had drawn up to her and her mind was so engaged in viciously tearing apart every movement of Mr. Wellington, she had not noted his approach.

Catherine shook herself from her angry musings and smiled brilliantly, a grin worthy of Gemma's. "Not at all, Your Lordship. I was merely engaged in…unhappy thoughts."

She saw from his raised eyebrow that he knew there was far more to her stories than such but she chose not to tell him all that chagrined her. It would take her far more time than she had with him, valuable time to discuss topics of interest in the otherwise dull environment of a ballroom.

Catherine thought this an opportune moment to change the subject and did so. "I do not recall your presence here, my lord, for the first hours of the ball."

"Indeed, I was regrettably detained. My younger brother, Colonel Vale, returned from his estate and he had made me promise to bring him to the ball. He is excessively fond of balls, my brother."

"Ah, yes, but he cannot be more excessively fond of the event than my younger sister. I cannot understand how we are related," replied Catherine.

"I presume you speak of Miss Georgiana?" he inquired and she blushed with happy surprise. She had captured his interest so far as to gain knowledge of her sister, inquire after her name! For though Lord Stratham had doubtlessly been aware of Mr. Darcy, influential figure in society as Catherine's father was, the Darcy daughters' names were certainly not common knowledge.

Masking her pleasure she replied, "Oh yes, she is inordinately fond of dancing but unlike I, who chooses my partners scrupulously, she will dance with any who possesses happy spirit and handsome face."

"Your description eerily resembles the personality of my brother, I must say. If you would allow me change in subject, I would inquire after your specifications for dance partners. If you are as _scrupulous _as you say, may I employ the insolence to ask if your scruples would be able to accept me for this next dance?"

She was infinitely surprised at his request for he had only just arrived, and was gladdened to know her company was the first he had sought.

"I do believe, my lord, my scruples may be put aside at the moment in favor of a dance." With that, they took to the floor amid rumors, speculation and gossip, all of which were ignored in favor of a lengthy discussion on the newest theatrical scripts and the morals they described for society.

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It took some persuading and a wink from the youngest Darcy before Mr. Kingston was obliged to introduce the youngest Bingley to yet another of the many attending the ball.

"If Miss Grace is so eager to meet Mr. Fitzwilliam, would it not be much simpler for her to ask her _sister_ for an introduction?" he teased genially as Gemma led him to Grace.

"Forgiving the fact that such an act would be impossible for my female cousin, why on earth would Jane be better suited?" asked Gemma, honestly perplexed.

"Why, they danced the first set together and an additional one besides," he replied and then colored in embarrassment at the amusement in her eyes. "Or so I learned from a few scheming mothers."

She laughed then and they approached Grace Bingley. The introduction between Grace and Mr. Fitzwilliam was quick but seemed to satisfy the former, who had formed a definite partiality towards the mild, elegant man with impeccable manners and smooth congeniality.

Her duty to her cousin fulfilled, Gemma returned her gaze to the dancing couples and found much to surprise and irritate her in turn.

Drawing the least attention as possible to themselves and the unlikely pairing they formed were Gemma's brother and Lady Margaret. Though William was as tall as his father, she was nearly level with him and together they easily made the most statuesque couple Gemma could see and the most odd.

Why would William ask the solemn woman of grave countenance, who had nothing to boast but a studied boredom in a rude character, and who additionally was afflicted with a connection to his former love?

Then Gemma reflected on William's honest heart and generous disposition. No doubt he had seen her standing idly by, quite alone and ignored by people who preferred talking to staring distantly into empty air—in other words, everyone but Lady Margaret and at times Catherine Darcy—and took pity on her state. It was probable William, with his gentleman character, felt it his duty to distract his new acquaintance and engage her in a dance.

Having put this pairing of this couple in the best and clearest reasoning, Gemma saw no amount of loose perspective or fanciful imagination could forgive the next odd grouping she saw. Isabella and Mr. Logan! Despite professing heavy recriminations against dancing to Gemma not moments before, it seemed the man had lost little time once Gemma had excused herself to aid Grace in asking Isabella to dance. Fury rose up in Gemma and she was astonished to find herself blinking tears from her eyes! Why did Isabella always flirt with perfection, always shadow her younger sisters indefinitely with hardly an exertion on her part?

Not that, Gemma now saw ruefully, Catherine was easy to best either, nor had Isabella quite managed to shadow _this _sister at the Kingston ball. For there she was, as simple and practical as was her habit, dancing with Lord Stratham for the second dance in a row! Ridiculous!

Gemma sighed and made her way to Mrs. Darcy, deciding to do the unforgivable and beg her mother to round up her four children and leave the ball…early. As the youngest sister did so, she realized with a rush of competition that far from her little game with Grace, the stakes had risen; her siblings had joined the fray and if there was anything Gemma desired, it was to prove herself the best of the whole Darcy family.


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in her life, Isabella had not one single wish to appear interested and polite in the presence of company. They were too obnoxious and inconsiderate to be worthy of the slightest degree of respect and only Miss Jane Bingley found it in herself to muster the thinnest façade of civility. They were, quite predictably, Miss Timothy and Miss Clara.

In the company of their mother, they had arrived to the Darcy townhouse with the excuse of "just passing through" (though Isabella complained to herself that unless they were touring a proper residential avenue, there was little to see on this street.) The quick greetings they had professed a want to issue quickly formed into a breakfast that Mrs. Darcy could hardly bring herself to offer, no matter what common courtesy decreed.

Jane and Grace Bingley were there, as well as Mrs. Bingley, for a thorough dissection of last night's eventful ball; such a discussion now seemed irrevocably afflicted with the disdain and prejudice of the Timothy mother and sisters.

Dorothy was present also, though she had been unable to attend the Kingston ball as she had a genuine headache. Ironically, it was the excuse she had formed to escape the Timothy women's forced outing few days before and when it had proven true last evening, she had ruefully proclaimed it God's punishment for deceit.

Isabella could hardly bite back a retort when neither the mother nor daughters bothered to acknowledge Dorothy's presence as they settled to break their fast.

"Dorothy, dear, do come sit by me," Mrs. Darcy ordered, her voice sharp with intolerance toward the insult the three visiting women had paid toward her niece. Thus inserting Miss Wickham in the circle of "confidants", the older woman succeeded in raising Mrs. Timothy's color.

"_I_," began Mrs. Timothy over her tea, "thought the ball a perfect success. Clara had the utmost honor of receiving Mr. Kingston's attentions with her third dance—the second ball in a row now that he has asked for her company—and Maryann was introduced to Mr. Logan. I think we all may safely agree he is by far the most handsome man to ever grace London society."

At Mr. Logan's name, Isabella flinched and did her very best to avoid glancing towards Gemma's vicinity, whom she could sense rather than see stiffening into an achingly straight posture. She knew her younger sister possessed an unusually strong admiration for the man—no surprise, considering his physique likened to that of a Greek god—and also knew Mr. Logan did not appreciate the girl's youth and whimsical nature.

If she was being candid in her analysis of him, Isabella must concede he had a preference for her over some of the other doting women, who seemed only capable of nervous trills of laughter and fluttering fawning in his presence.

But Miss Darcy had quite enough of young men's attentions, with delightful Mr. Kingston shadowing her every step. Not to mention that a single accidental glance at Mr. Wellington had succeeded in utterly destroying all clarity of mind she had hoped to refrain from being thrown into disarray. So after one dance with Mr. Logan, Isabella had decided to leave him to the pursuit of her sister if Gemma so wished—and Isabella was fairly certain she did.

"He is a fine looking man, I suppose," ventured Mrs. Bingley timidly and Isabella fought a violent urge to laugh at the Timothy sisters' identical, scandalized expressions.

"I cannot condone simply fine-looking, Mrs. Bingley. He is surely more handsome than any Greek god!" cried Miss Timothy and Isabella grimaced upon hearing her own assessment of Mr. Logan linked so closely to that of Miss Timothy's.

"Putting aside opinions of Mr. Logan's appearance," Mrs. Darcy said coldly and Isabella saw her bright, sparkling eyes soften in compassion as she glanced at Gemma, "I think Janie did quite prettily last night. Do you not agree, my dear sister?"

Mrs. Bingley nodded quickly. "Oh yes! Janie," she began but was cut across by insipid Miss Clara's unwelcome voice.

"Did you not dance your first with Mr. Fitzwilliam? And one more besides?" she inquired hurriedly.

Jane blushed a pretty rose and nodded meekly. "Yes, though I am convinced he asked me for the second simply because most of his other female acquaintances were already engaged in dancing of their own."

Isabella rolled her eyes; it was obvious to her that Mr. Fitzwilliam was very much enraptured with Jane Bingley, even if her cousin's modesty did not permit her to admit such.

Isabella glanced over at Gemma and was relieved to find her giggling happily with Grace, neither paying any attention to the conversation. It gladdened her to see Gemma's spirits rising, for she had thought Mr. Logan's apparent disdain for Gemma (built, Isabella supposed, on the foundation of her being a youthful girl still naïve to the world of men no matter how many she danced with) might just have succeed in crushing Gemma's hopes. She need not have worried however, for it seemed certain that nothing could steal the light from her youngest sister's eyes and the bounce from her step.

Dorothy believed that if she never saw Mrs. Timothy or her daughters again, she would be satisfied for the rest of her life. So honest was her dislike against them, her quiet and compliant mind did not rebel against this surprisingly strong emotion. Her aunts and cousins did what they could to shield her from their remarks and obvious scorn but the menaces' resolutions to injure her and humiliate the Darcy and Bingley families for having such an inferior relation seemed impossible to overcome.

Dorothy was quick to join Catherine against the idea of a walk and, until Miss Timothy gave voice to her opinion, was rejoicing the prospect of bidding the odious Mrs. Timothy, Miss Timothy and Miss Clara adieu. Instead, Miss Timothy was contrary to the other women, professing desire to remain indoors with "delightful Miss Catherine." She did not even deign Dorothy's decision to stay with a nod.

Thus it was that Catherine, Dorothy and Miss Timothy remained in the parlor, two unhappily resigned to their fate and one trembling with excitement due to the gossip she was about to impart.

No sooner had the last of the others left on the walk that she burst out, "Miss Catherine, of all the fortunes to befall you! You were so honored as to receive the distinction of dancing with Lord Stratham. Twice at a single ball no less!"

Despite Miss Timothy's complimentary words, Dorothy saw the jealous gleam in her small eyes, lit with fervor of malicious intent, and suppressed a groan of foreboding. She had seen a similar look in Cornelia and Priscilla's gazes too many times to count and had no wish to see how _this_ woman acted upon her evident envy.

Catherine seemed disconcerted at Miss Timothy's proclamation and did not seem to know how to respond. At last, she settled for a placating answer stemming from her sharp wit, which had been useful in saving situations before this. "Surely it was as great an honor for him to dance with me as it was for me to dance with him."

Dorothy realized she would never be able to guess the direction of Catherine's mind, or overcome the first reaction of surprise following her every quirky phrase. As it was, she had to gaze dutifully out the window to restrain her laughter. Nothing positive would issue from provoking flushed Miss Timothy even further.

"Oh!" said Miss Timothy, quite taken aback. Then she regained her composure and with it, her jealousy.

"My dear, you must not read into your shared dance with Lord Stratham. He had only just arrived and most likely saw you the first woman of suitable age who was not otherwise engaged. Fortunate too was that you had been recently introduced and he must have seen opportunity to make good on the acquaintance." As Miss Timothy paused for breath, Dorothy reeled with shock and could see the beginnings of something akin to rage tighten Catherine's face.

"To be sure, you did look quite pretty last night but if it were beauty he was after, he would have been better suited to Miss Darcy or Miss Bingley. I am sure Lady Laura, daughter of Lord Ashby, would have been his immediate first choice should she have attended." Dorothy gasped in horror and sat back with an audible _thump_.

The honking, abrasive voice of Miss Maryann Timothy sheared at Catherine's pride and dignity. Shocked by the force of the obvious insults Miss Timothy threw her way, Catherine mustered every shade of self-possession and clear countenance her frank and candid character would allow.

"Or perhaps, Miss Timothy, he found our conversation as captivating as I did," retorted Catherine in a voice pinched with the effort of holding back seething anger.

"It is unwise to flatter oneself when dealing with the admiration of persons superior to your rank. I stick strongly by my first declaration of you being a rewarding conquest for his first dance and I do believe you should feel honored as such, for in beauty it must be confessed you do not hold the superiority neither are you the privileged eldest. Please understand, my dear Miss Catherine, that I merely wish to warn you lest you allow yourself deluded by misguided notions. I find it my duty as your friend," replied Miss Timothy evenly, summoning a very smug and prim tone.

"I do believe the subject may be left to my own private construction as it concerns Lord Stratham and me and not any other. Shall we reconvene on a differing topic of less opinionated discussion?" asked Catherine and could hardly bother to wait for the condescension.

Despite Catherine's outward show of confidence and control, the unexpected cruelty of the words—carefully calculated by Miss Timothy to cause dissent and uneasy wonderings—stung the wittiest Darcy daughter.

As the conversation progressed, Dorothy did her best to take over Catherine's role, observing her cousin was in no state to formulate coherent ideas that even in a normal presence of mind would be difficult to bear with good will.

Catherine saw her cousin's concentrated efforts and was gladdened by the sight but inside, she reeled with shock. It was all she could do not to turn Miss Timothy from the house at that moment but she knew that doing so would merely invite rumors to take root and bloom prosperously in London.

Dimly, she wondered why the woman's words affected her so, when they never had before. Certainly Miss Timothy had said words to wound several times, though perhaps in not so personal and injuring a nature.

However, Catherine's state of mind was raw with horror and confusion, a most odd feeling for her. Masked suffering was Isabella's forte, dramatic anguish Gemma's. Catherine never dealt with her emotions, preferring to let them wash over her on the wave of time, trusting distractions to keep them from constant thought until they were utterly gone.

But in this case, she found herself dissecting every moment she had spent with Lord Stratham, comparing them to her impressions and then to Miss Timothy's words.

By the time the larger group had returned from a deeply dissatisfying walk, if the glowers from all but Mrs. Timothy and Miss Clara were to be trusted, Catherine had at last convinced herself that perhaps the favor Lord Stratham had showed her was merely of convenience and maybe—at this thought Catherine shuddered openly—even pity. Perhaps she had imagined his partiality toward her and the interest in the conversations she had thought so enthralling, delighted as they ran their course. Perhaps Catherine was wrong to like him so.

Later that evening, as the two retired to the room they shared together, Dorothy wondered how or even if she should approach the situation. The pair of cousins had found no time to reflect on the ill-fated meeting with Miss Timothy with what remained of the day. Throughout the evening, Dorothy had kept a worried, keen eye on Catherine, observing her as if she were a highly interesting attraction.

She had watched Catherine struggle to keep up with the flow of conversation, her wit obviously inactive at supper and her manner subdued. It had been so noticeable toward the end of the night that Mrs. Darcy had asked Catherine if she felt ill and Catherine had replied that no, she felt fine. It was about as convincing as Miss Clara Timothy being described a wit and everyone easily saw through her words.

Catherine encountered no pressure for information from her mother or siblings though and retired early. Dorothy went with her, though she suspected her absence would have been preferred or even appreciated by her cousin.

Sitting cautiously on the very edge of the bed, Dorothy watched her cousin silently, wincing at each slam of a crystal-topped bottle on the glossy wood and each yank of fabric drawn off and on Catherine's frame, rigid with bottled emotions.

At last, the tense young woman sank onto the bed, spread eagled on top of the sheets and staring listlessly at the ceiling.

Dorothy waited, trusting Catherine's tongue—which never stilled in every occasion Dorothy had experienced with her cousin so far—to break the silence. Indeed, hardly a minute had passed when Catherine sat up straight. Her face scrunched in a frown, an expression of severe distress and malcontent rendering her lovely features sharp.

"This is ridiculous," she stated simply, voice sculpted with tremors of emotion, the 'this' encompassing the entirety of Miss Timothy's stay and the thoughts that had issued forth due to it.

A sarcastic retort on Catherine's eloquence rose in Dorothy's mind but she held herself from uttering it. This was an odd feeling for Miss Wickham, as never in her life had she ever dreamed of giving voice to her true thoughts. No one would have listened before she arrived to the company of her aunts and cousins.

Dorothy waited for a following explanation on Catherine's opinions, which were renowned for their raw honesty and the fervor with which they were exclaimed. Instead, there were no words forthcoming, whether in explanation or damnation, and the Darcy daughter merely turned on her side as the uncomfortable, tense silence descended once more.

Stupid Dorothy was not; she recognized her cousin's clear refusal to explore Miss Timothy's comments and the topic on which they were centered. She decided to grant Catherine's wish for peace and solitude and so she rose from the bed with a creak and a palpable hesitation in her steps as she crossed the room. She glanced once more at the prone figure, too straight and stiff for repose, and at last closed the door with a sigh, even as foreboding engulfed her and Dorothy's every practical instinct warned against her doing so.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Sorry for the wait…again! Thank you so much for the reviews. They keep me inspired **

A troublesome cloud had stolen over the Darcy household in the form of an annoyed William and disappointed Gemma.

"Please repeat exactly whom you invited," she demanded, the polite word beginning her command only there due to habit.

"I _told_ you, Gemma. Colonel Kerrigan, Mr. Kingston and Henry, as well as you, Isabella, Cate, Dorothy, Jane, Grace and those two Timothy girls. I believe Kerrigan is bringing a guest as well."

"I cannot _believe_ you invited Maryann and Clara Timothy and not…" Gemma caught herself at the last moment.

"And not who, Gemma?"asked William in exasperation. "Besides, I thought you were amicable acquaintances with Miss Timothy and Miss Clara. I certainly would not have invited them if you were not."

Gemma took a deep breath, and restrained herself from blurting out Mr. Logan's name. How on earth was she to woe him if her own brother did not invite him to the theatre outing _William_ was organizing? Yes, Mr. Logan and William had not had much time to acquaint themselves well unlike everyone else invited but it would have made Gemma the happiest sister in the world if he could stop dawdling with it.

"Do not be a fool, William. _No one_ likes the Timothy sisters, least of all me," retorted Gemma wearily and sensed broaching another topic would benefit them both. "You said Henry's going to be there? Henry Bingley?"

"Yes, he's in Town for a few days, not long enough for the next ball but he can come to the theatre," said William, much relieved with the change in subject. Gemma barely concealed a wry smile; handsome Colonel Bingley, second son of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, would not escape the attentions of the Timothy sisters the whole of the evening. He personified the liveliest and brightest of the younger army officers.

"Whom is Colonel Kerrigan bringing?" she asked, her last remnant of hope caught on this mystery guest being Mr. Logan, though she did not believe the acquaintance between Colonel Kerrigan and Mr. Logan was so particularly close as to warrant invitation to a private theatre outing.

"No idea. Some fellow newly arrived to Town, I believe," replied William easily and Gemma rolled her eyes. Much help a brother was. She would have to wait for the upcoming Matlock ball, orchestrated by Lord Matlock—Mr. Fitzwilliam's elder brother and Gemma's second cousin—to win over the elusive Mr. Logan. How inconvenient.

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The following evening found Isabella very occupied in trying to find a seat in the box William had reserved. Several chaperones sat in the back, while those of William's party, including Isabella's sisters and cousins, sat towards the front.

Gemma and Grace sat on either side of Mr. Kingston, who seemed eager to receive their exclamations and flirtations, reciprocating with his own. Isabella sighed, for however bright and invigorating Mr. Kingston's company, she knew neither of them was meant for the other. He needed a lighter and more spirited woman to be his wife if he ever settled down, a possibility that she harbored no slight suspicion of ever being fulfilled.

Of her newly arrived cousin, Colonel Henry Bingley, Isabella had to strain to cover a particularly strong urge to laugh at his obvious discomfort. Both Miss Timothy and Miss Clara fawned over him, fluttering their fans as delicately as their abrasive, uncultured manner would allow. She did not envy _his_ position in the slightest.

Isabella continued to search for a group into which she could insert herself; why did she spend so long talking to Aunt Bingley in the back? The groups had formed for the night, it seemed.

True to her malcontent thoughts, she now spied Dorothy and Jane, the former uncertainly conversational, and the latter quietly civil, being enticed by an exuberant, cheerful Colonel Kerrigan to speak more than their timidity would ordinarily allow. Together sat William and Catherine, and with them two empty seats.

Isabella groaned as she realized the need to join them, for she recognized the spirited sibling banter between the two and knew she would be allowed no welcomed respite of peace while she sat near her brother and sister.

But did William not mention Colonel Kerrigan bringing a guest? She wondered this and as she drew up to Catherine and William, tried to insert the question into the tumbling retorts flashing back and forth between the two. Only the two of them could find so much to profess forceful opinion on, especially when the topic seemed to be, at present, the style of carriage they had arrived in.

As Catherine responded briskly and animatedly to a particular statement of William's, Isabella thought admiringly of her sister's uncanny ability to remark flippantly on topics both serious and light with equal spirit.

At last, there was a small pause and Isabella tackled it with uncharacteristic force. "If you would still your tongues a moment, no matter how incredible the wording and carrying out of your doubtlessly enthralling opinions, I should like to ask a question," she said sharply and such was Isabella's dominating stance that the two acquiesced, though with no slight chagrin.

"Certainly, my dear sister," said William gallantly and, satisfied with his answer, Isabella was rendered the opposite when Catherine saw fit to insert, "Whatever her queenly goddess being desires, I, the servile slave, bow down to her majesty."

With a scowl that ill-became her beautiful face, miffed Isabella continued. "I am of happy mind to hear it, Cate. Now to return to any semblance of normality and civil conversation, I don't suppose you would care to tell me the location or identity of Colonel Kerrigan's guest?"

"Kerrigan didn't mention the name but he said the guest had gotten held longer that predicted at an earlier appointment and would arrive slightly later, around this time in fact."

Satisfied that one sister was content with his answer, William returned to persuading Catherine to his point of view. Though, Isabella thought ironically and a trifle amusedly, Catherine could _never_ be persuaded into thinking differently of anything on which she had formed a previous opinion.

Few minutes passed as Isabella sat in the seat beside Catherine's, one open beside her—the only one left empty in the box—and did her very best not to pout at being ignored.

At last, there was a movement at the entrance and as Colonel Kerrigan rose to greet his guest, Isabella felt herself grow cold inside, her mind suddenly shadowed with an acute discomfort.

"Wellington! At last you've deigned to grace us with your presence!" the Colonel cried good-naturedly. In a moment, Catherine had turned a stricken face to Isabella, William had rose uncertainly to greet the arrival, and Isabella felt the gazes of many on her person.

The necessary introductions and greetings made throughout the box, Gemma decided to display a semblance of tact, which was rare indeed. "Bella, would you very much mind trading seats with me? I am sure Mr. Kingston would enjoy your presence more than mine." She said good-naturedly, eyeing the empty seat beside Isabella that now seemed as if assigned to Mr. Wellington.

Isabella reflected momentarily as Mr. Kingston obliviously distracted them all with professions of no one being more delightful than Miss Gemma, though certainly Miss Darcy's company was lovely to experience and so forth. Isabella knew Colonel Kerrigan had not meant any discomfort by inviting his friend Mr. Wellington for once again his lack of knowledge towards the events of several years ago had been primary in orchestrating this unfortunate clash of persons.

Really, she thought crossly, some one _must_ inform the poor, misguided Colonel of the Darcy family's past acquaintances and relationships and had best do it rapidly too, before more trouble was inadvertently sown.

However, as Isabella glanced first from Catherine's bright, shrewd eyes and then her Aunt Bingley's soft, knowing ones in the back of the box, she realized she could not forever avoid _his_ company. And she would seem weak if she took Gemma's offer; it would be glaringly obvious to all (and most importantly to _him_) that she did so to escape Mr. Wellington.

Steeling herself for the evening to follow, Isabella replied, "I would rather mind switching, Gemma, as I am quite content where I sit. In any event, I am quite sure, my sister, that Mr. Kingston finds your company as enjoyable, or perhaps, more so, than mine. Is that not correct, Mr. Kingston?"

Amid exclamations to the positive and negative—so as not to offend either sister—on the part of Mr. Kingston and a single understanding nod from Gemma, the empty seat beside Isabella was uncertainly filled by a man she would be much obliged to never set eyes on again.

"Good evening, Mr. Wellington."

"Good evening, Miss Darcy."

And so the evening began.

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In all honesty, the play was a horrifying wreck. By the time the basis of the plot had been painfully established, everyone in the box was laughing and talking brightly to one another. Everyone that is, except Mr. Wellington and Miss Darcy, who together formed an unfortunate silent island of their own in the midst of the social chatter crashing about them.

It took a horribly awkward silence between them, neither knowing how to broach it, before Isabella could muster, "Has your stay in Town been enjoyable, Mr. Wellington?"

"Quite, Miss Darcy. I had quite forgotten how entertaining it all is," he replied immediately, seizing the hesitant laurel branch she offered.

"Certainly," she agreed mildly and awaited his next words. It was, after all, his turn to take the reigns of this ridiculous conversation. Recognizing she would wait for him to speak, he played along with the torturous game.

"The play…it lacks a certain attraction, does it not?"

"I daresay it lacks every kind of attraction! Dull characters, empty words, unoriginal plot! I declare it a recipe for disaster."

"Those are harsh words, Miss Darcy. Perhaps not even this piece of—dare I say—_art_ merits such critique."

With a flash of surprise, Isabella recognized the teasing tone of his voice, not at all different from how it was six years before. His eyes sparkled and she could feel her cheeks flushing under his gaze. But no, this was ridiculous! She was no longer a girl of nineteen, naïve to the flirtations of men like Mr. Wellington, capitulating to his every word.

"Ah, but Mr. Wellington you are too lax with your title of this play. It is not a work of art, as you say, but rather the work of ruining an evening."

He laughed then, at the defensive tone of her voice and the feeling in her words. Isabella flinched at hearing the familiar sound, for so long absent from her life, but then managed a smile. She supposed he could be no more at ease with the situation than she so perhaps it would be best to retain an amicable character, a simplicity of mind, for the evening spent in his company.

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It was very plausible, Isabella thought as she entered her bedchamber late that night, that Mr. Wellington was so changed a man, she might forget her earlier infatuation and the circumstances surrounding their relationship in order to become renewed acquaintances.

For the evening had been far easier than she could have imagined, even in the company of Mr. Wellington for most of the night. She had remained the sole object of Mr. Wellington's words until Catherine alerted herself to Isabella's predicament and ventured to lighten the conversation between the two. Indeed, towards the end of the night Isabella had even begun to enjoy the odd nature of their renewed relationship, based on solely amicable terms.

Yes, she thought happily as she blew out the candle, Mr. Wellington would very much be a rewarding friend to boast.

**Please Review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: This is the last chapter before everything starts colliding, so I apologize if it comes across as boring! Thank you to all the reviews! **

A fortnight later, following two weeks full of Pump Rooms and theatre outings, Catherine had developed a forceful opinion as to the nature of her elder sister and Mr. Wellington's relationship.

Closely watched by Mrs. Darcy's guarded gaze and apprehended by Catherine and Gemma—both of whom were wary of their sister's sanity of mind around the man—a light-hearted relationship had grown between Mr. Wellington and Isabella. They met occasionally on walks about Town and most often in the Pump Room, to the point where Catherine had begged to her mother that they no longer frequent the Rooms at all, for fear of Isabella once more falling captive to his attractions.

Catherine knew Isabella thought herself resistant to his charms, knew that Miss Darcy fully believed herself capable of maintaining a light and simple connection with Mr. Wellington.

But Catherine had observed the brightness of Isabella's voice when she conversed with him, as well as the faint blush that stained her cheeks when he walked with her, and knew with a terrible certainty that Isabella had in no way shut the past behind her.

Far from moving on and welcoming a renewed acquaintance with a mind untainted by their shared past, Isabella seemed to open old memories and build upon them. Nor did Catherine trust the charming, handsome person; she believed him still the same man underneath only disguised by better education and studied manners.

True to her thoughts on the matter, Catherine had privately decided she would watch Isabella with the unrelenting keenness of a hawk, for a ball—hosted by the Earl of Matlock, Catherine's second cousin and elder brother of Mr. Fitzwilliam—was taking place this evening and Mr. Wellington's attendance was certain.

With high trepidation and startling apprehension, unusual for a woman of renowned for so bold a character and so decided a mind such as Catherine, she wondered if Lord Stratham would also be in attendance. Lord Matlock and Lord Stratham walked in the same circle so his invitation to the ball was definite, she knew, but she also noted his lack of interest for balls. Perhaps the adoration of his younger brother—Colonel Vale—for the social event would coerce His Lordship into joining him for from what the lord had said of his brother, Catherine could firmly say her acquaintance respected the colonel very much.

Catherine was unsure if she desired Lord Stratham's presence. Her emotions regarding their relationship and the man himself were highly confused and liable to switch at her every whim.

Now, as she entered the brightly-lit ballroom, she swallowed with difficulty and cast her gaze about, searching for him among the clusters of vibrant London society.

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To Isabella's utter surprise, Mr. Kingston did not approach her for the first set, the second or even the third. Instead, she glimpsed him wooing Grace Bingley onto the floor after a greeting toward Isabella that, while as decorous and flamboyant as always, lacked the lilt of admiration and tint of flirtation that had rendered it so amusingly agreeable before. Puzzled as to why his professed adoration towards her had been struck cold so soon and without any hint towards it doing so, Isabella was so distracted as to nearly walk into Mr. Wellington.

"Carefully now, Miss Darcy. It would not due for one as pretty as you to go about bumping into _every_ eligible young man. I am afraid Mr. Darcy would have his hands full with an inordinate amount of dreamy proposals."

Pleased with his gaiety and veiled flirtations, Isabella laughed and steadied herself. In leaps and bounds, her relationship with Mr. Wellington had progressed to the point where she would almost look upon him as one would an intimate friend, or close confidante. His boisterous nature was enjoyed; his honest charm welcome respite from the ridiculous airs that accompanied most of London's rich young men. His character was so drastically changed from how she had met him six years before she could hardly divine two more different persons.

"Would Miss Darcy do this pompous lord the honor of accepting his undeserving hand for the next dance?" he asked ceremoniously with a sweeping bow though, as he looked up at a smiling Isabella, she recognized a mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes.

"She would be most delighted to bestow such a tremendous honor," replied Isabella and so saying, they returned to the dance floor and, as discreetly as was possible, joined the line of couples.

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Gemma was hard-pressed to conceal her disappointment as she relinquished her last partner from the dance. Grace was doing far better than she in their little game, a game that had started to become uncomfortably real for Gemma Darcy. Her Bingley cousin had danced twice with Mr. Kingston and now was triumphantly being led into the next dance by a solemn, elegant Mr. Fitzwilliam, her primary partner of choice.

Gemma, instead, was failing to capture Mr. Logan's notice at all and was surveying the room hopelessly in search for inspiration as to how to proceed. Her gaze alighting on Isabella and Mr. Wellington (this being not at all favorable to Gemma, who mistrusted the immense change of his character for she remembered well the impression his presence had left on Isabella, whom had been inconsolable many months after), the youngest Darcy was suddenly struck with an idea.

Admirers she had many, both for her beauty, her dowry and her vivacity. There were many who would eagerly request her to dance and though not all fulfilled her requirements of agreeable face and spirited nature, she reasoned in this instance the beloved rules could be bypassed. Perhaps the way to win Mr. Logan's notice was through envy. Perhaps after he had seen her so admired and desired, he too would want to partake in the fun.

Spying a particularly handsome eldest son of a wealthy landed gentleman—why completely give up on the requirements, she thought innocently—Gemma decided to begin her plan in hopes of much-craved success.

As she did so, an unfamiliar stroke of guilt lanced through her and she hesitated. It was not in her nature, however lively and vibrant, to engage in such lowly tricks. She cast her gaze about the room, dark eyes alighting on Mr. Logan's proud, solitary figure, and pushed forward determinedly, swallowing back the lump of discontent that found home in her throat.

Gemma would see this wretched pursuit until the end, for his character was becoming dearer and her determination stronger with each passing moment.

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Catherine stood with Dorothy and Colonel Kerrigan, deliberately avoiding the eye of Lord Stratham, whom she had just glimpsed across the refreshments table.

The Colonel was attempting to engage them both in some topic of which Catherine had little interest but his mild speech and contrastingly lively manner was welcome in her turbulent turmoil of thoughts.

She glanced at _him_ again out of the corner of her eyes, and accidentally met his gaze. Quickly, she snatched back her own but it was too late. He had seen her.

In a moment, a long, imposing shadow fell over her and she looked up, her smile less honest than the ones she had mustered before.

"Vale!" cried Colonel Kerrigan brightly. "Brilliant of you to come for once though I must admit you have been rather good in your attendance to balls this winter."

Catherine did not meet His Lordship's eyes as she felt him give a swift glance her way. Neither could she look at Dorothy, whom she knew fixed her with an appraising gaze, too observant for Catherine's muddled mind to sanction calmly. Thus, she was stuck staring at the Colonel in a desperate attempt to clear her thoughts and keep her expressions to herself. Thankfully, Colonel Kerrigan was still bumbling along good-naturedly to Lord Stratham.

"I suppose your brother dragged you along; I do declare I have yet to meet one who adores balls as much as James. Though," and here the Colonel gave Catherine a friendly wink, "Miss Gemma does seem as if she might beat him out."

Oh! Of all the possible observations to make, Colonel Kerrigan had to light up one of those that had privately passed between Lord Stratham and Catherine not one ball before!

Now Catherine could feel her color heightening and had to wrench her gaze from the Colonel to the marble floor, which offered little of interest but some sanctuary from two probing gazes—the lord's and Dorothy's.

Dorothy and Colonel Kerrigan supported the conversation due to the absence of aid from the two other members, as one, the Earl, was intent in scrutinizing Catherine's lowered visage and the other, Catherine, was just as determinedly avoiding everyone's questions and glances.

Finally, Colonel Kerrigan decided his companions' grim, awkward silence had stretched on long enough and said, "I am quite eager to dance. Four is a lovely number, you know, and if you would all join me, I am sure we should have great fun dancing a quadrille."

Frankly, Catherine could think of nothing less amusing but Dorothy had rapidly joined in her approval of the proposition and Lord Stratham, though slower in his acquiesce, gave it accordingly. Meanwhile, Catherine recognized the incivility if she refused and at last was forced to utter the dreaded words of acceptance.

The four of them took to the floor and the Darcy daughter barely stifled a moan when she realized she would have to look up from the floor sometime.

The dance was achingly long and she stumbled over every other step before Dorothy at last intervened with a sharp jab in Catherine's ribs. Sucking in a whistling breath, Catherine realized her cousin was telling her in quite painful terms that she seemed a fool. So she began to converse with her three partners separately as they moved in and out of the dance.

To Colonel Kerrigan, "And how are you acquainted with Lord Matlock?"

To Lord Stratham, "I trust you have been in good health since we last parted."

To Dorothy Wickham, "I am dying, Dorothy, painfully."

To Colonel Kerrigan, "Is that so? I, instead, know him through family relations, as the late Lord Matlock was my father's cousin and the present Lord Matlock's—"

To Lord Stratham, "I am gladdened to hear it, my lord. London has kept me quite entertained, thank you."

To Dorothy Wickham, "I don't suppose you have a broadsword anywhere, do you? I would like to die with style, if I could."

To Colonel Kerrigan, "—uncle, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is a dear family friend of mine."

To Lord Stratham, "Is your brother in attendance this evening, my lord?"

To Dorothy Wickham, "My dear Dorothy, a prison cell would be a lovely accommodation at the moment, thank you for asking."

To Colonel Kerrigan, "Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam has two children, Richard and Sophia."

To Lord Stratham, "I would be delighted to meet Colonel Vale."

To Dorothy Wickham, "Would it be truly terrible if I escaped from the room this instant?"

To Colonel Kerrigan, "I heard you were stationed in the East Indies. I would adore if you could share some stories with me in the future."

To Lord Stratham, _silence_.

To Dorothy Wickham, "This, my friend, is called torture. Whoever invented it has an exquisite sense of humor for the young and innocent such as yours truly."

At last the afore mentioned torture ended and yet Catherine was not free for she had carelessly promised His Lordship that he could introduce her to his younger brother, Colonel Vale.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, depending on perspective—Lord Stratham was a man of his word and he led Catherine over to one not as tall as himself but more youthful in face, who gesticulated dramatically with every word.

"Brother," said Lord Stratham as he approached Colonel Vale, "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley's daughter, Miss Catherine Darcy."

"Miss Catherine, my brother, Colonel Vale."

The man turned, eyes wide with the life invigorating the room, and grazed them across Catherine, who curtsied.

"A pleasure, Miss…Catherine," he said in a drawling tone, languid and at obvious ease in his surroundings.

"Likewise, Colonel Vale. I have heard much to commend you by."

"My brother is generous with his praise."

Despite Colonel Vale's easy responses and fixed smile, she felt something less of amity in his eyes as he looked at her. Lord Stratham seemed oblivious to the expression in Colonel Vale's gaze, as he looked from one to the other with an expectant expression.

Catherine took a deep breath and continued with the conversation. She wondered why the smooth lanes of childhood seemed obliged to twist and turn as one grew older. Must everything prove an obstacle to overcome?

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

After the disastrous dance including Colonel Kerrigan, Catherine, Lord Stratham and herself, Dorothy would have been very glad and relieved to see the night end. Instead, it was doomed to stretch on long afterward and she at last settled in the protection of Mrs. Darcy, as she could hardly impose on Colonel Kerrigan's unprejudiced company any longer and all the Darcy siblings were otherwise engaged.

"Oh, look, Dorothy," said Mrs. Darcy suddenly, discreetly inclining her head toward the line of dancing couples. "Lady Margaret and William are dancing. How odd, for her character is not at all to his tastes. But upon further thought, I _am_ his mother and surely know no more of his taste in women than Maryann Timothy."

Dorothy shared a small smile with her aunt and noted that Mrs. Darcy did not comment upon the couple dancing next to Lady Margaret and William. For the second time that evening, a beautiful Isabella and handsome Mr. Wellington danced together. While identical smiles graced both their flushed faces, something more of a keen, impassive observation rendered Mrs. Darcy's expression shadowed and inscrutable.

Dorothy knew her own ignorance toward Mr. Wellington in times of years ago, during nineteen-year-old Isabella's relationship with him, blinded her to any discrepancy in his character. From what she observed of him now, he seemed a genteel sort of fellow, charming and of smooth speech, with pleasing humor and quick wit.

However, all the Darcy children save Isabella brooked steady and strong opposition to Dorothy's timid, positive descriptions of his character. According to them, he was a fake fellow with the manners of a boar, false countenance, dangerous charm and was certainly the same man as before underneath a façade of educated manners and civility. Most of all, he was condemned to be stealing Isabella away just for her beauty and dowry.

But Mrs. Darcy did not partake in her three younger children's harsh critique of her eldest's admirer. Nor did she flatter or compliment him whether in his presence or not; her voice remained simply civil and her manner guarded in his company. Her thoughts on this matter were impossible to divine.

Dorothy sighed at the ridiculous amount of people and connections entwining the respected Darcy children to the inane gossip and "common knowledge" of London society. She was almost grateful to be 'Miss Dorothy Wickham, plain niece of the Darcy family, taken in out of pity, not a pound to her name, destined to be an old maid'…almost that is, until she remembered that of all her new acquaintances, only one, Colonel Kerrigan, had managed to look past her unfavorable circumstances and treat her as any other.

The women scorned her and teased the Darcy sisters about the inferior connection, though none dared to do so in the presence of Mrs. Darcy. The men did not see her at all, no matter William's kindness and favor toward her as he endeavored to include Dorothy in the discussion that flowed along at every ball. London society, Dorothy reflected with a weary sigh, was a horror.

"A sigh such as that shan't due at a ball, Dorothy. You would be better off spending time with someone besides an old woman like me. Janie is over there with Miss Knightley. Miss Knightley is new to Town and from what I have observed, has a fair character that does not judge," said Mrs. Darcy and gave Dorothy an encouraging push in her cousin's direction.

Pert and pretty Emma Knightley was, as Mrs. Darcy had said, honest in character and doings though a shade too self-confident for Dorothy. However, her bubbling voice kept the conversation swirling between the two quiet cousins and Dorothy was glad for it, as it meant her own opinion was needed but little.

Dorothy quickly found that they were positioned in front of two men, both talking in low voices that she could just barely hear if she strained. They were the rather young Lord Matlock, elder brother of the smooth, civil Mr. Fitzwilliam as well as the host of this ball, and Lord Stratham's dashing younger brother, Colonel Vale.

She caught their words and was shocked to hear Catherine's name repeated often in the conversation. Intrigued, she listened more closely, trusting Miss Knightley's relentless chatter to obscure her uncivil eavesdropping.

"I shan't tolerate a match between my brother and Miss Catherine Darcy," Colonel Vale was saying heatedly. "It is more imprudent than words can express. She has only family wealth and a respected father to commend her by. Do not get me started on her appearance."

"Come now, James. She has an attractive enough face; not her elder sister's of course, but lovely all the same. And wealth and family connections are not things to _avoid_ in a potential alliance."

"Oh, her face is that of her mother's—utter country charm, enlivened with the blossom of youth, but it will fade in time. And if this were not enough to prove her inadequacy as a potential _Countess_ of Stratham, just picture her face compared to the woman my brother is very nearly promised to. I trust you know of whom I speak," replied Colonel Vale dismissively. Dorothy felt her brows puckering, her lips pursing as she listened to the man disrespecting her cousin.

"Good God, James! You cannot compare anyone to such a woman! They would all—easily encompassing Catherine Darcy, even Isabella Darcy—pale hopelessly in comparison!" cried Lord Matlock in obvious surprise. Then his voice took on a rather wistful tinge. "Is it _quite_ certain that he shall marry the…woman?"

"Absolutely," said Colonel Vale assuredly and adopted Lord Matlock's cautious tone. "The two mothers involved have been planning their engagement since they discovered _her_ beauty. It is merely a matter of time before the engagement is announced. I would not fancy being Catherine Darcy _then_. Won't her scheming plans for my brother be foiled perfectly?"

Enough, Dorothy had heard enough. Trying uselessly to follow Miss Knightley's stream of conversation, Dorothy wondered if she ought to tell Catherine this crushing news. Perhaps she should not, at least while the identity of this woman remained a mystery, for little good it would do Catherine to know Lord Stratham promised to another without knowing whom this other was.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Thank you for all the reviews! Through these, I realized that some name/relationship-clarifying was necessary. So, the Darcy family has Isabella, William, Catherine and Gemma. The Bingley family has Jane and Grace, along with three sons that are unimportant to the story. Dorothy Wickham has two older sisters, two younger and one younger brother. Then, London acquaintances include the rude Miss Timothy and her sister, Miss Clara. There is Colonel Kerrigan, who is a good friend of Lord Stratham, an earl with a younger brother named Colonel Vale (who is not very important.) Another pair of sisters is Lady Margaret and Lady Laura, daughters of an earl. Lady Laura has a romantic past with William Darcy, and with most of London society. According to Lord Stratham's brother, Colonel Vale, Lady Laura and Lord Stratham are very nearly engaged. Mr. Darcy's cousin (who was the older brother of Colonel Fitzwilliam in Pride and Prejudice), the Lord of Matlock, had two sons before he passed away. The elder of the two is the current Lord Matlock and the younger is Mr. Fitzwilliam, who Grace has a "crush" on. The last two important young men are Mr. Wellington, a second son of a viscount and who had an affair with Isabella Darcy six years ago, disappeared from London society for those six years and came back again a changed, more proper man, and Mr. Logan, a wealthy landed gentleman who disregards Gemma (who was a "crush" on him) and believes her silly, unintelligent and not worth his notice. Hope that helps! Enjoy!**

Sir and Lady Vicksburg were a very self-important couple, him being knighted as a young man, she being the daughter of a likewise self-important baronet. They had made plans for what was sure to be the biggest ball of the season, as it was at the very end of a week in which many illustrious personages were to arrive in London for winter. The date was sometime in early January and those who had decided to spend Christmastide at their country estates now returned to their townhouses.

Thus, the Darcy family had been obliged to attend, though Sir and Lady Vicksburg were a hefty degree too odious for their liking. The Bingley family, too, was forced to send their acceptance of the invitation. Indeed, even Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley had made plans to travel to London for the ball until they, to the annoyance of their wives, who wished they too could find an excuse to do the same, claimed a suddenly impossible load of work to care for.

Neither their wives nor children in Town could find it within them to blame the two men, for if they could excuse themselves without raising questions of incivility, they would do so in an instant.

The evening of the Vicksburg ball found a rather dreary Catherine Darcy straightening a wrinkle in her light green gown while Gemma argued good-naturedly with Mrs. Darcy over the need for a warm cloak. The former insisted the light wrap she wore would be adequate enough covering—"I shan't spend my time outside when there's dancing to be done _inside_, Mama"—while the latter maintained that her 'old-fashioned' notions were to be followed.

While the mother and daughter argued, Isabella, Jane, Dorothy, and Grace fluttered around Catherine on the bed, adjusting their hair and their gowns as they murmured to each other. No one save Dorothy seemed to feel Catherine's complete apprehension towards the evening: quite the opposite, in fact. Isabella and Jane both hummed happily as they helped each other finish preparing, Grace fairly bounced on her feet and Gemma, when she at last won the argument with Mrs. Darcy—who appeared simply tired of quarreling—appeared as pleased and ravishing as always, especially in the beautiful gown she had had made long ago and saved for such an important occasion as this.

"We _will_ be late, you know," reminded Aunt Bingley gently, framed in the doorway.

"If you would like to coerce your daughters and nieces into moving, you may do so. I am quite exhausted as a result of my previous endeavors to do such," replied Mrs. Darcy in a terse voice though she exchanged an amused glance with her sister.

"I am ready," said Catherine, sliding off Gemma's bed and swatting away the afore-mentioned sister's hand as she tried to add an ornament to Catherine's hair.

After a few quiet minutes of riding in the Darcy carriage they all (including the Bingleys) shared to the Vicksburgs' manor—just beyond the bustling London streets—they arrived to their destination. If the noise spilling into the frigid night air and the golden light pouring from the windows was any indication of what went on inside the house, Catherine could safely guess that the ball was well on its way despite the relatively early hour.

Sir and Lady Vicksburg greeted them all, though hardly deigned to grace Dorothy's presence with a nod but the young woman had unfortunately seen it all before and merely ignored their incivility. Catherine felt enraged on behalf of her cousin but was pulled away by Miss Wickham before she could act upon the suffusion of annoyed anger.

"Unworthy, good-for-nothing, insolent—" began Catherine in an angry mutter before she was overridden by Dorothy's awed, "Uncivil they may be but they are certainly accomplished at hosting balls."

Indeed, a large, ornate room welcomed them, already full of beaming matrons and elegant old gentleman beside laughing young women and bowing young men.

For few minutes, Catherine stood with Dorothy toward a side of the large ballroom, both intent on observing the peoples both known and unknown that populated the area in front of them. Then, a thin quiet descended toward the entrance of the room, though it was unable to mask the boisterous voices beyond that immediate area.

Craning her neck to see the reason for this sudden silence, Catherine felt herself suddenly dizzy and her skin paled minutely. Moments later, Dorothy grabbed her wrist and tried to turn her away but it was too late. Catherine had seen…seen Lord Stratham, impossibly tall and distinguished, arrive with the most beautiful woman Catherine had ever set eyes on, easily half his height and by far the possessor of the most beauty known to man—or woman.

With a sharp intake of breath Catherine understood and, having processed the shock of seeing the former object of William's admiration again after all these years, felt all the more the fool for unwittingly competing for Lord Stratham's affections against none other than Lady Laura, daughter of Earl Ashby and England's goddess of beauty.

Catherine could not find it within herself to meet Dorothy's eyes, which fell scorching on her face. She was helpless to wrench her gaze from the couple. A sick feeling rose in her throat and the oddest sensation prickled her eyes. With a start, Catherine realized the stinging was tears, something she had not shed since she had fallen off a horse at ten years old.

Oh, yes, the night would be terrible indeed.

Gemma had deemed the night lost when Lord Stratham appeared with none other than Lady Laura. After all, even Isabella and Jane would be hard pressed to find dance partners when one such as Lady Laura stole the hearts and gazes of all young men, eligible or not. Not to mention, at least four young women had arrived with Lady Laura, presumably the companions she kept with her in the secluded Ashby estate, all possessing more than their fair share of beauty.

However Gemma soon realized all was _not_ lost for it was very obvious that Lady Laura had claimed Lord Stratham as her own and perhaps some young men would be dissuaded from their awestruck admiration of her, thinking they could not hope to compete against the lord.

This thought contented Gemma so much that she had the confidence to engage Mr. Logan in conversation, using Mr. Kingston's company to reacquaint herself with him. For good measure, Grace tagged along as well, welcoming Mr. Kingston's ecstatic compliments with a pleased smile.

"I daresay now that Lady Laura has arrived, the dancing shall commence. Miss Grace, I presume your first dance has been claimed?" Mr. Kingston was saying.

"No indeed, Mr. Kingston. Is this some strange way of inquiring if I would dance with you?" replied Grace, arching an eyebrow flirtatiously.

"You presume too much, my lady!" he cried in mock horror but then an honest smile broke over his handsome face. "However your presumptions are correct. I do not suppose you would accept this 'strange' inquiry to dance?"

"I suppose I could, Mr. Kingston," she responded brightly but Gemma knew that however much her cousin welcomed Mr. Kingston's flirtations, her sight was still stubbornly set on Mr. Fitzwilliam.

Mr. Logan witnessed the entertaining spectacle with hardly a twitch of his eyebrow but even his cold countenance could not ignore the demand for civility when Mr. Kingston cried, "Mr. Logan! It is now your turn to ask dear Miss Gemma a dance! She is quite experienced in the art, you know."

"I am aware," he replied dryly. Then he turned to Gemma, cool blue eyes appraising her impassively and said, "May I ask the honor of your hand for the first dance, Miss Georgiana?"

Such was her fluttering of thoughts and her endeavors at retaining a collected countenance, Gemma ignored his refusal to use her vastly preferred 'Miss Gemma'.

"You may," she replied in as natural a tone as she could muster.

Some few minutes later, Lord Stratham and Lady Laura began the first set and the couples fell into place. Gemma felt a thrill as Mr. Logan guided her to the line of dancers.

The dance began, a lovely dance with ample time to fulfill one's loquacious desires, and Gemma fought to control the trembling in the hand that held Mr. Logan's.

At last, she decided the silence between them had gone on quite enough and nonchalantly asked, "How long shall you stay in Town, Mr. Logan?"

"I leave in a few days time for business in the country. Then I hope to return to finish the season. It would be a pity to miss society and balls for mere business," he replied blankly.

"You are fond of balls, then?"

"Not so much dancing as the variety of acquaintances to which I am introduced. Though I must confess this winter has brought about an inordinate number of capricious youths. I am quite nearly through with the silliness of it."

Despite her adoration for the man, Gemma could not hold back her opinion, nor the force with which it was uttered. "Through with it all? I sincerely hope not on the account as something so trite as capricious youths! Rather empty an excuse, I daresay."

He seemed surprised by her answer and yet Gemma could not detect signs of annoyance at her impromptu insolence, though she herself blushed at the impulsive streak she had betrayed.

"Capricious youths indeed, Miss Georgiana. The odious company of many in London society I could easier bear were it not inflicted upon me _relentlessly_ by the schemes of mothers and the irritating tendencies of young women confident beyond their person." The sharpness of his voice took her by surprise and Gemma hardly bit back a retort of her own. This was _not_ the dance she had envisioned many times as she lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim her into blissful dreams of Mr. Logan.

"Those a harsh words to condemn females by," she replied at last.

"No harsher than is necessary to eliminate all possibility of my every having anything to do with such women more than common civility must allow."

There was no doubt now of the stinging intent behind his words and they were felt more deeply than he could have ever imagined or wished.

Gemma turned shocked, pained eyes on him, large, dark eyes that had enticed many young men but who now gazed devoid of any flirtation or laughter. Finally she spoke, voice tight with hurt.

"A forceful opinion, Mr. Logan, is useless if not forcefully uttered. Rest assured you have done so more successfully than you could imagine."

With that, a cold silence fraught with shock on both sides lasted several minutes until, when they reached a pause at the end of the line, Mr. Logan's intense gaze was caught somewhere beyond Gemma's shoulder.

"Forgive me, Miss Georgiana. I must leave you now. Have a good evening."

The abruptness of his dismissal and departure in quick succession shook Gemma from the numb state she had been frozen in while in his stiff arms. She stepped back from the floor, mouth rounded in surprise, cheeks suffused with the warmth of embarrassment. To have one's partner leave you in the middle on the dance, after a wounding conversation and no attempt at civility! How mortifying…and how cruel.

She looked around helplessly for a comforting face but there were only young couples laughing and dancing with all the joy in their carefree world, a world that had been hers not moments before.

Blinking sharp tears away from her eyes, Gemma longed for her mother's warm embrace, Isabella's reassuring touch, Catherine's impish smile, her Bingley cousins' distracting banter. Even Dorothy, with whom Gemma had spent little time, would have been welcomed as means of comfort.

As it was, Gemma recognized only Lady Margaret, who was at this moment venturing to her at a solemn, unhurried gait.

Stealing herself for the older woman's certain dry observation upon the state of Gemma's color or some boring comment upon the ball, Gemma could only stare in wonderment as Lady Margaret came up and laid a tremulous hand upon Gemma's shoulder.

"It seems to me nothing is as torturous as the trap of unrequited love," she said wisely but instead of adopting the tone of a sermon, she said it in the wistful, sad voice of experience.

Her pride already in fragments, Gemma could but tearfully nod.

Clucking her tongue upon witnessing the Darcy daughter's sorry state, Lady Margaret led Gemma from the vicinity of the dance floor. As she did so, Gemma managed to study her companion's countenance and saw it too was tightened in pain and her eyes were more expressive than Gemma had ever seen them before. Gone was the mask of boredom and in its place poignant suffering for reasons Gemma could not imagine was brought out in the light of the ballroom.

"As pleasing as a man like Mr. Logan may appear, may I venture a guess at appearances, much like book covers, being one of the most deceitful of things." Lady Margaret's voice cracked towards the end and she cleared her throat forcefully before continuing.

"Perhaps, Miss Darcy, closure would cure you of your hurt. Telling him his manner of treating you was quite despicable would shame him and cause him well-deserved guilt for certainly he is not without _one_ civil bone in his body."

At the Lady's counsel, Gemma nodded along with her words in affirmation, certain now that she had done nothing to deserve such cruel treatment and that the humiliation Mr. Logan had caused her must be acknowledged to his face. But she would not stoop to his level; no, a few well-said words would carry her point into his thoughts, which would hopefully be soon submerged in guilt and regret.

Lady Margaret smiled sadly, the open display of emotion something Gemma would never have thought to pair up with the woman's grave countenance, and lightly pushed her in the direction of the open doors leading to the garden.

"I last saw him make his way to the gardens, Miss Gemma. Surely you will find him in solitude there and voice your opinions quickly but accurately. Let us hope he simmers in the profundity of the ill manners he has displayed," she said.

Gemma smiled uncertainly in reply, and, assured with such bold words to reinforce her, set about to do as the lady counseled. She left Lady Margaret staring after her, the older woman's gaze already distant and pained.

Gemma wandered into the cool night air, breathing deeply and feeling a ripple of gooseflesh break across her skin. It was, after all, midwinter and only the heat that clung to her from the ballroom kept her from shaking. Steeling herself against the cold, Gemma pulled the thin satin of her marigold yellow gown closer about her while muttering about not following her mother's wise counsel on warm cloaks, and set off in search of the dreaded Mr. Logan.

He was simple to find, directly ahead of her when she turned down an offshoot of the main path. But there was another who walked beside him, a lady dressed in an ermine-trimmed cape and a rope of pearls visible in her dark hair.

Caught off guard at seeing another in his company, Gemma thoughtlessly pushed herself behind a hedge as they rested at a fountain. The lady sat upon the edge of the fountain and Gemma glimpsed a loose coil of hair gleaming in a sliver of moonlight. "So who is this that I saw you dancing with, my dear Theodore?" she asked as she leaned up to look at his face.

Gemma caught her breath in apprehension. As rude as she found Mr. Logan and as great the mortification he had caused her, she was anxious to know what—or who, it seemed—had prompted such an utter lack of civility.

"Oh, no one. Just a silly girl," he replied easily and Gemma sucked in a sharp breath, the sting of the rebuke piercing her already weak defenses.

"Are you sure? She seemed quite enthralled and her face as attractive as I've seen in these parts," replied the lady in amusement.

"No, no, my Maria, always skipping to conclusions that are not viable. The girl is attractive yes, but I fear youth and beauty are all she has to commend her by. No, she is not a conquest and is too young for the games she plays. Let another senseless man fall prey to her spider web," he replied in earnest and his forthcoming laugh chilled Gemma to the bone.

Each word thudded home and Gemma could only stand in shock as her moat dried up, and her drawbridge failed, and her outer defenses were ripped apart brick by brick until the treasure chest of her heart was decimated into splinters of pain.

"My, my! Such harsh words, Theodore. Surely she cannot be as thoughtless as you say," gasped the lady in open surprise.

"More, I'm afraid. Since the moment she met me, I have been but a goal to reach, use and then leave for the pickings of another. No, this time you have deduced wrong, Maria. She is not at all a woman with whom I wish to pursue an acquaintance, no matter how powerful her father, and I shall be glad to see her leave at the coming of spring."

Gemma would hear no more; she could not listen to herself being so described. Wheeling on unsteady feet, she ran in utter desperation from the place where she had been so befouled by a man that she had so deeply admired to a woman she did not even know.

The tears fell quickly and furiously down her frozen cheeks and she dashed them away in a torrid of hurt feelings. Her heart thudded brokenly in her chest, each beat resounding violently in her ears. She slipped back inside the ballroom, for once drawing no more attention to herself than necessary, and promptly went in search for the carriage. For remainder of the night, Gemma remained in the closed carriage, weeping terrible sobs beneath the thick rug the driver had been quick to procure. Gemma hated balls, she hated men, she hated London and most of all, she hated Mr. Logan.

**The Vicksburg ball will continue in the next two chapters. Hopefully, the second part will come up tomorrow and the third the day after. **

**PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Thank you for the reviews! Would it be totally pathetic of me to say that they literally make my day better? The Vicksburg ball continues…Enjoy!**

Despite Lord Stratham's entrance with Lady Laura, which clarified the mystery woman centered in the discussion of Colonel Vale and Lord Matlock at the ball before in the same moment Dorothy heard whispers of her name, the Vicksburg ball was progressing as all the other balls had for Miss Wickham. She spoke to few outside her family—one among the acquaintances being an irrepressible but charming Miss Knightley—and often sat with Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley, content to observe.

For while Dorothy was having a rather unoriginal time at the ball, the Darcy siblings certainly were not. Upon Lord Stratham and Lady Laura's joint entrance, Catherine's quickness of mind saw the probable connection between the two and had lost no time in making herself disappear into the swarm of London's high and affluent.

As for William, the relationship Dorothy had privately fancied seeing form between Lady Margaret and him dissolved in abrupt promptness upon the arrival of Lady Margaret's younger sister, Lady Laura.

As far as Dorothy could understand, the elder sister had decided that William Darcy would surely fall in love with the younger sister as soon as they danced together—for surely that time would come, both being young and popular figures of society—and Lady Margaret preferred to sever all acquaintance with William rather than face such brutality face-to-face when it came.

Now Dorothy looked about for Gemma, whom she had recently seen dancing with Mr. Logan. To her surprise, they were not in the lines of couples, though the first dance was ending…now. The Wickham cousin pursed her lips. The youngest Darcy daughter had better not provoke scandal!

Presently to Dorothy came Grace, flushing bright from the movement of the dance but though her partner had been the delightful Mr. Kingston, she did not look particularly glad.

"Hello, Dorothy," she said as she drew up to her cousin. Dorothy was significantly surprised as the youngest Bingley was the cousin in London of which she knew the least.

"Good evening, Grace."

"Have you seen Gemma anywhere?" she asked, the question startlingly similar to that which Dorothy had been wondering just moments before.

"Not since the beginning of the dance, where she went with—"

"Mr. Logan, yes, I know," interrupted Grace quickly but it was not meant rudely, Dorothy knew, for the younger woman had thoughts that darted from one place to the other with reeling speed.

Grace stood with a pensive frown upon her face and at last asked, "I don't suppose you would take a quick stroll around the garden with me to check for Gemma, for though I cannot imagine what ridiculousness brought her out there, I am quite certain she is not indoors."

Though Dorothy was in no mood to venture into the cold of winter, it would be better to spend her time away from the constant company of her aunts, however bright and lovely they both were.

With this thought, Dorothy followed Grace into the gelid air, wincing at the sharp stabs of cold that flowed around her. They passed a fountain, where an indistinguishable man and woman talked in quiet, fervent tones.

Then, Grace grabbed Dorothy's arm and pulled her around a bush with a forceful jolt. Before Dorothy made her indignation known, Grace hissed in her ear, "Look, Dorothy! It is Jane!"

Indeed, there was Miss Bingley, her face barely visible in a beam of moonlight, wrapped in the arms of a figure undeniably masculine. Dorothy could feel the air saturated with the shock of this discovery, and her body was frozen, even as Grace—with a voice trembling with a thrill of excitement at catching her perfectly courteous and proper elder sister in such a decidedly improper act—wondered in whispered, fierce tones whom the man was.

Dorothy was quite eager to leave the premises at the very moment, her skin now prickling with far more than mere chill. She realized now that she had been so caught up with the stories of the Darcy children, she had quite neglected those of the Bingley sisters. She only knew that Jane was much admired by many, including several lords, and that Grace professed great admiration for Mr. Fitzwilliam to Gemma in delighted whispers overheard only by silent, stationary Dorothy.

"Who is it?" snapped Grace in frustration, craning her neck to and fro and wobbling the bush dangerously.

Suddenly, Dorothy saw the sound of Grace's movement reach the couple and could only watch in horror as they jumped apart, revealing a flustered Jane and flushed…Mr. Fitzwilliam.

In desperation, Dorothy tried to shield Grace from the sight but it was too late; she had seen who embraced her sister in so ardent and tender an embrace. A rush of color engulfed Grace's cheeks at once and Dorothy could feel her shaking from far more than the temperature of the garden.

"Grace! No!" she cried as she realized the direction of Grace's thoughts but again Dorothy was behind the clock for her younger cousin stepped from the bush with a determined, enraged step to the side.

"Grace," whispered Jane in horror, slipping quietly away from Mr. Fitzwilliam and venturing toward her sister. But Grace held a single, trembling hand out in front of her, an obvious command for her sister to go no further.

"I did not expect this of even you, Miss Bingley," in an enraged voice thick with anger and undercurrents of pain.

"Oh, Grace. It was a m-m-mistake, my dear. We ought not to have…embraced so for it is very uncivil and lacks every _shade_ of propriety but we did not think anyone here in the garden on so cold an evening."

Suddenly, Dorothy saw where this was headed and wanted very much to abandon the cover of the bush she still cowered behind in favor of running to the house in all haste.

For Grace thought it certain her sister had seen the claim she held on Mr. Fitzwilliam. Grace thought her sister had wooed him away from her in a petty act of sisterly competition. But Dorothy knew Jane did not see it this way.

Quiet, civil Jane who saw only a man she had fallen in love with, simply one of the inconsequential many her sister pined after and sought admiration from. Miss Bingley did not see it as an act of subterfuge or stealing from her sister at all.

"Uncivil? Propriety?" cried Grace and the scarlet of her cheeks was so bright, it was distinguishable from the duskiness of the rest of her person in the thin strands of moonlight that filtered through dustings of clouds.

"Is that all this is to you?" continued Grace and Dorothy could just barely detect a sheen of tears in her eyes.

"I do not understand, Grace," murmured Jane as she gently pushed Mr. Fitzwilliam toward the house. "Go, Fred—Mr. Fitzwilliam," she whispered brokenly as he proved resistant but at last, he nodded and walked away, casting a confused, rather mortified glance over his shoulder at the sisters. Dorothy wanted very much to follow his footsteps but did not trust the two women alone in each other's company.

"There is nothing to misunderstand, Jane! You must always have what I want and you always get it, being prettier and older and more accomplished than me!"

Then the last thing Dorothy had ever expected to happen occurred; Jane drew herself up and her eyes glittered with something akin to anger for the first time in perhaps her whole life.

"You are a grown woman now, Grace Bingley. The petty trials of jealously that kept you a malcontent burden of a child should be behind you. Evidently, maturity has not reached you and for this I pity you."

"Do not act a mother to me, sister, and do not _dare_ pity me! You know as well as I that you have always done your very best to be perfect, to be the beloved eldest daughter."

"And I suppose now that striving for perfection is a crime? You are a fine _girl _to talk of trying too hard. What, exactly, have I done so abominably wrong?"

"You wish to be better than everyone else, to drown us all in your quiet, serene ways and lovely perfection! You wish to ruin me as best you can, being so vindictive as to steal the man I made very clear I loved."

At Grace's words, Jane turned away and all Dorothy, frozen beyond help in her immobilizing shock, could see of the elder sister was the gleam of moonlight on her pale fair hair and the tight tension vibrating in every curve of her body.

"_Ruin_ you, Grace? Steal your _love_?" whispered Jane, voice twisting with terrible sarcasm and contempt on the last word. "You go too far. I have no wish to see nor speak to you. Good night, Miss Wickham," stated Jane, cold, hard voice quivering with a tremendous rage. She walked past a still Grace, past a shocked Dorothy behind the bush that brought her evidently sparse cover, and returned to the house, shoulders straight and skirts snapping.

Grace did not look at her sister's retreating figure or her cousin. Instead, she put her hands over her face and fled deeper into the garden. Dorothy did not follow.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

As Catherine at last disengaged herself from a new acquaintance—a young woman of exceedingly lively disposition called Miss Emma Knightley who had an unfortunate habit of refusing to finish a conversation—she realized that though the ball had been proposed as being the grandest and most successful of the season, it had failed to gladden what seemed to be every Bingley and Darcy family member in attendance.

Both Gemma and Grace were nowhere to be found but Catherine had heard murmuring from the notoriously cruel young ladies of the most vicious gossip circles that Gemma had been mortifyingly left by Mr. Logan in the middle of a dance and Grace had took a man out with her to the garden, which would provoke horrible scandal if the rumor proved to be truth.

As for Jane, she sat beside her completely confused mother, refusing every offer of dance and staring with an unusual fixed intensity at the floor. If Catherine did not know her cousin as well as she did, she would almost assume the woman to be extremely angry; as Catherine _did_ know Jane Bingley very well, she knew the notion laughable.

Then there was Isabella, but of her Catherine saw little for she had been talking with mean-spirited acquaintances all evening, dances with Mr. Wellington and few other lucky men interspersed throughout. She did not seem particularly lively or interested in the ball, and avoided Mr. Kingston's eye at every turn for it was a well-circulated rumor now that the man had left Miss Darcy for Miss Grace Bingley after some sort of duel with Mr. Wellington. How ridiculous London society was! At present however, Isabella was not talking with acquaintances but indeed had somehow left the room unnoticed by her sister, one of the many in Catherine's family to have done so.

William Darcy seemed extremely out of spirits. According to the delighted gossip of the afore-mentioned mean-spirited ladies, he was caught in a triangle between Lady Laura—who sought more fun behind Lord Stratham's back—and Lady Margaret—whose cold heart of stone was said to have warmed and now broken for the Darcy son.

As far as Catherine could tell, her brother seemed to avoid them both in a strange kind of fearful astonishment at being in so a tenuous position as choosing between two sisters. It was clear to those who knew him well, however, that he harbored nothing but distaste for Lady Laura but speculations regarding his feelings toward Lady Margaret were very confused and varying.

Some pointed out that one as bright and good-hearted as William could never fall in love with one as boring and cold as Lady Margaret. Others slyly pointed out that opposites attract.

Finally, Dorothy was keeping to the wall of the ballroom, very alone and with a very strange expression on her face for a ball—wary and slightly fearful—while she avoided the company of Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, with whom Jane was situated. This Catherine could not understand, as Dorothy had made it a habit to spend much of the ball in the protective company of her esteemed aunts. And it was folly to assume Jane's presence would keep Dorothy from continuing to do so.

Thus it was that Catherine's tired mind spun with questions and mysteries that seemed destined to remain unresolved while, with her every movement, she made sure to avoid both Lady Laura and Lord Stratham. All the same, she felt many meaningful gazes upon her, wondering at the Darcy daughter's reaction to His Lordship's newly-discovered relationship with Lady Laura. Curse this ball!

After leaving Miss Knightley with a hint toward attending to Dorothy, who Catherine commented as seeming forlorn and decidedly out of spirits, certainly in need of companionship, Catherine wandered over to a few acquaintances more of Isabella's tastes than hers. They welcomed her into their circle civilly but, as Catherine had no opinion on the silly situations they discussed, she found herself listening to a conversation between two older women in front of her.

"Oh, Victoria! Just look at those jealous eyes trained on them from every corner of the room! They are the supreme objects of envy!" cried one woman whose features looked to have been once exceedingly attractive in the bloom of youth.

Her companion, more aristocratic and shrewder in appearance, replied, "As it should be, Rosalind. The match shall be the finest of this generation. Who could ever discredit the joining of two such noble names through the union of marriage?"

"Oh, who indeed, Victoria? A simpleton would realize the beauty that exists between them. Oh, it is just like we always planned," replied the first woman with a breathy tremor to her high-pitched voice.

"Who are those two women?" asked Catherine discreetly to the lovely dark-haired young woman by her side.

Looking to see of whom Catherine spoke, the woman—a Miss L to whom Catherine had been recently introduced but already forgotten the name of—said with an amused tone, "The one on the right is the Countess Rosalind Ashby. Her companion is the Dowager Countess Victoria of Stratham. They have been the greatest of companions since they each married into their respective families. Their husbands were like brothers, though the late Lord Stratham passed away two years ago this winter."

With a flinch, Catherine realized of which couple the Countesses spoke; it seemed there was a secret engagement between Lady Laura and Lord Stratham, though any person with basic observational skills would have recognized such this evening.

"Thank you," she replied quietly to Miss L and rose. There was no use in sitting with acquaintances of which she had little in common and she wished to hear no more of the Lady Ashby and the Dowager Lady Stratham's excited plans for the respective daughter and son's future marriage. She felt ill enough as it was.

How dare _he_ have taken advantage of her in such a way? She had allowed herself be exposed to gossip and critical eyes, sat through a tirade of Miss Timothy's seeking to insult her in every way possible, and offered him friendship.

In exchange, he had been engaged—or nearly so—for the entirety of the time of their acquaintance. He had known that he would marry Lady Laura and yet still he had shown partiality to Catherine, introduced her to his brother and…and made Catherine believe herself in love with him. What follies! What idiocies!

With such tortured thoughts, Catherine walked towards her mother, aunt and Jane, and was apprehended in her path by one she would rather have never laid eyes on again.

"Ah, Miss Catherine. I did not see you until now. Have you been hiding?" Lord Stratham asked amicably but the teasing in his voice was overshadowed by a certain discomfort. Discomfort indeed, thought Catherine savagely.

"I have not, Your Lordship. I was in plain sight to anyone whom I wished to see."

He was taken by surprise, a shock following her words widening his eyes.

"I am not in complete understanding. Perhaps we had best talk of this while dancing, if you would do me the honor," he ventured uncertainly.

Catherine felt rage build inside her and strained to keep her tone as civil and impassive as possible considering the wealth of emotions that rose dangerously with each second she spent in his company.

"I will _not_ do you such an honor, Lord Stratham. In fact, I talk far better while standing just like this, with no false touches and gestures to confuse my speech as happens when engaged in dancing." Catherine took one step closer and her emotions leaked into her voice as she continued, fighting to keep the tone low.

"Your Lordship, did you truly believe I would remain ignorant of your doings? That I would be the last in London society to discover the relationship that existed between you and another, as if set in stone? You underestimate me cruelly, Lord Stratham, if you truly thought so.

As it is, I have understood quite more this evening of your character than of all the time we shared in balls before this. I am not a fool and refuse to be treated as one. Do you have any idea of the rumors that swirled when we danced together? Any _notion_ of how vile the opinions of others toward me, uttered in my presence, regarding the simple acquaintance I shared with _you_. Suddenly, I am a fortune seeker, a woman with no goal in life save that of marrying above her rank. I have subjected myself to the dissection and degradation of many people in this very room, merely for the sake of becoming an intimate acquaintance of yours.

Instead, I am to learn, after all these trials I have silently shouldered, that my sufferings were for naught for you played a dangerous game, dangerous because _I_ refuse to play these games, least of all without being informed I am a pawn within one. I am not a prize to win and then throw away. The game, Your Lordship, is finished."

Her voice had not risen but her ferocity had, so by the time she finished, she was seething, spitting out her words faster than she thought them through. Her neck hurt from straining as she looked up at him, and she had the sick satisfaction, tinged with the deep bolts of pain lancing through the rest of her body, of seeing him take a step back in his frank astonishment.

"Now, you had best return to _Lady Laura_ and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

So saying, Catherine turned on her heel and stormed past her mother and into the entrance hall, ignoring a couple arguing fiercely near the front door. She turned down a narrow hallway and tried several locked doors until at last she found an alcove with a large window, hidden behind a heavy curtain. She curled inside the tight space and, with a cry of helplessness, launched into tears.

**Vicksburg ball part 3 hopefully up tomorrow! PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Wow! Thanks for all the amazing reviews! I hope this chapter satisfies you guys **

It took Isabella the first hour of the ball to understand that many had assumed the flirtation she had shared with Mr. Kingston earlier in winter to precede a marriage proposal. When, instead, he had completely and abruptly turned his attentions solely to Grace Bingley and Isabella had become good acquaintances with Mr. Wellington, it had been assumed they had undergone a mishap in their 'love for each other.'

Their seeming avoidance of each other at this ball and events before this had given life to a ridiculous rumor that detailed Mr. Kingston and Mr. Wellington dueling over Isabella's regard, with Mr. Wellington emerging the victor. Also according to the rumor, Mr. Kingston had apparently decided to avenge himself and thus took Isabella's younger and innocent cousin, Grace Bingley, as a conquest.

Though Isabella had done her very best to erase all traces of the obnoxious and laughably foolish rumor from existence, she had found her efforts had mostly failed. Surprisingly, however, Grace was having none of it either, as she had danced only her first dance with Mr. Kingston and had avoided him the rest of the evening.

Actually, Isabella realized as she looked about herself, Grace had seemed to utterly disappear. Mr. Kingston stood alone by the door opening to the garden and seemed so dejected, Isabella decided it would be a perfect time to erase any vestiges of the rumor that had evaded her annoyed efforts to clear it.

Though she knew it a slight to propriety, she walked up to Mr. Kingston by herself, doing her best to ignore the startled exclamations that followed her path as the rumor was spun around into different lights and perspectives.

He straightened as she approached and fixed a rather desolate smile on his face. "Good evening, Miss Darcy."

"Good evening, Mr. Kingston. Is everything going well? You seem entirely out of spirits," she remarked cheerfully.

"I would ordinarily reply to the positive, Miss Darcy, but I must confess this ball has been unfairly trying," he replied with a vast change in his usual flamboyancy of manner.

"So it seems, Mr. Kingston. Perhaps you would rather a dance to lift so saddened an expression as you wear at present."

"I suppose it would not hurt, Miss Darcy. Would you do me the honor of a dance?" he replied doubtfully but despite his words, a slight degree of vigor returned to his countenance. Though Isabella did not wish to encourage a repeat of his fanciful flirtations—let Grace enjoy them while they came—she did not like this morose state of his and the rumor involving them all was a true headache to deal with. A dance would be sure to clear his unusually sullen attitude and dispel the rumor along with it.

They took their place as the music began again and Isabella felt quite proud as she saw color return to his cheeks and a joie-de-vivre light his eyes, while surprised gazes of many of the women she had been conversing with remained entranced by the pairing they had thought impossible.

"I do not suppose you have seen Miss Grace Bingley, have you, Miss Darcy?" he asked hopefully as they danced.

"Not since the beginning of the evening, Mr. Kingston. My cousin, Miss Wickham, however, was in her company for a time I believe. I would recommend asking her following the dance," replied Isabella.

"Wild one, Miss Grace. Always flitting off from one man to the other. I must say, when Wellington first proposed the idea of pursuing Miss Grace, I had not any idea of the difficulty in completing such a task."

So great was Isabella's confusion upon hearing this that she stopped in the middle of a spin.

"Miss Darcy? Are you well?" asked Mr. Kingston.

"Would you repeat your previous statement, Mr. Kingston?" asked Isabella, voice thin, face pale.

"That concerning your cousin? I apologize profusely, Miss Darcy, if I offended your family loyalty. To be sure, Miss Grace is indeed as lovely and bright as I hoped. Indeed, we fit together quite well, as Wellington had predicted, but—" Mr. Kingston suddenly stopped, an odd expression stealing over his face.

"I ought not have mentioned his name. He quite specifically ordered me to never speak of his part in the—well, never mind then."

They continued in silence as an astonished Isabella filed through Mr. Kingston's words until she had assembled them in a manner that produced a sudden, jolting clarity.

Of _course_! The very ball Mr. Wellington had made his debut appearance was the last instance in which Mr. Kingston had shown such pronounced favor toward Isabella. No doubt, the newcomer had drawn aside his gullible friend and assured him that he would go nowhere with his infatuation for Miss Darcy, that he was much better off chasing after Miss Grace.

Prickling anger, so little felt by Isabella Darcy of mild and merciful temperament, who had an ability to forgive that had astonished her family numerous times, was well and properly settled in her thoughts.

How _dare_ Mr. Wellington? How dare he return after six years of no contact, leaving only a lingering sense of abandonment and freshly painful memories for a young Isabella to cling to herself in the depths of the night, and expect her to welcome him back with a loving embrace? She was not his _property_, to claim when he wished. He could not forbid men like Mr. Kingston to consort with her just so he could have her all to himself without competition!

Isabella was so distressed, she withdrew her hands from Mr. Kingston and stepped out of the dance.

"Miss Darcy?" he asked in a worried voice, following her uncertainly. In that moment, Isabella felt a rush of pity for the man, who would be doomed to spend the rest of his life under the selfish guidance of Mr. Wellington. But not Isabella; she would not wallow in the shadow of Mr. Wellington's control any long.

"Excuse my incivility, Mr. Kingston, but I am urgently needed elsewhere. Perhaps you could find Grace in the garden." With a quick curtsy, Isabella hurried off in the direction of Mr. Wellington, whom she could see gesticulating and laughing amiably from some several meters away. She knew her hasty escape from Mr. Kingston and the dance floor—not to mention what she intended to do next—would incur rumors beyond the like of which she had ever faced but there was far more to occupy her at the moment.

"Mr. Wellington," she snapped as she arrived in his company. The two lovely young women adoringly resting on his arms glared at her vehemently. Let them glare; in few minutes she would return him to them indefinitely.

"Yes, my dear Miss Darcy?" he asked, puzzlement ruffling the velvet of his tone as he beheld her flushed cheeks and shiny eyes. Isabella flinched at his term for her for she was no one's dear, least of all his.

"I desire a word with you," she said and then, noting the two women's pointed refusal to move from his side, added, "A _personal _word, if you please."

"Miss Darcy, your tone rings with such commanding insistence, I would not dare refuse. Miss Fairfax, Miss Frances, if you would excuse me," he said, voice light but eyes dark with confusion as the sisters relinquished their hold on each respective arm.

He waited patiently until they had wandered off then asked, "Miss Darcy, may I know the reason for this surprise? You seem…aggrieved."

"I would much rather conduct this conversation somewhere more isolated. The front entrance will do as all have since moved to the ballroom," replied Isabella shortly.

Now in obvious confusion, Mr. Wellington followed Isabella into the entrance hall but stopped when she continued deeper into the hall, which seemed dim compared to the bright lights in the adjoining ballroom. "My dear Miss Darcy, would it not be more in accordance to propriety if we talked in the view of others within the ballroom? We would not want society formulating nonsensical ideas as to our 'secret' meeting."

"You are one to talk of propriety, Mr. Wellington," hissed Isabella contemptuously. "And neither have you ever minded what society thought concerning you."

Injury and surprise evident upon his face, Mr. Wellington followed Isabella in the darker recesses of the hall near the front door.

"What has happened, Miss Darcy?" he asked.

"I discovered a highly interesting piece of information this evening, Mr. Wellington. You would be mortified if you knew how easily your _friends_ share your secrets."

"Isabella…I do not understand." But despite his innocent words, Isabella saw the beginnings of a horrified understanding rise in his eyes. She bristled at the use of her Christian name. She had never given him right to use it, especially in so familiar a manner.

"Oh, but you do, Mr. Wellington. You know you have subjected me to the rumors and oftentimes scorn of London's worst circles of gossip by ruining the relationship between Mr. Kingston and me." Isabella waited for the accusation to sink in before she surged on, emboldened by the power of her words and the force of her rage.

"And all that…trouble in convincing Mr. Kingston of the fruitlessness of pursuing me and instead persuading him that my _cousin_ was most compatible with him. You did all that to claim me yours as you did when I was nineteen. Six years wrought many changes on us all, Mr. Wellington, and I believed they had ripened you as well, brought you wisdom and gentility. It is evident they only feigned to do so, for beneath this new exterior you have proven yourself to be as ever the master of manipulation."

Isabella's accusations, every word reinforced with a stone block forming the wall of her will, shattered in the thick air. Dimly, she registered the sound of a young woman's slapping footsteps as she blindly ran past the two of them.

The shock on Mr. Wellington's face had melted into a genuine expression of pain and shame.

"Isabella, that is, Miss Darcy, I am mortified you discovered the details of my plan in such a way. But if you would, give me leave to describe my reasoning," he murmured, voice breaking as he spoke.

Isabella felt the insult of this whole episode being described as his plan so strongly she was unable to respond before he continued.

"I left you at nineteen, when I boasted my supposedly mature age of two and twenty years, because I was a selfish young man with no sense of propriety or manners. I saw only the privileged side of life, the one lit by the falsity of wealth and high birth. From a young age, my elder brother and heir to the viscountcy—Baron Combermere—was my model for behavior. He was, and still is, a gambler, a drunkard and a man who shames my family repeatedly.

By the time I reached my fateful twenty-second year, I had adopted his character; it was this form of my brother, cast through me, you suffered through six years ago. I left abruptly that winter due to my elder brother's riding accident, which was hidden as much as possible from the scrutiny of society. Drunk and riding at dawn, he had mistook a branch for a bridge and fell into a rapid river. Only by the quick thinking and good will of a farmer on his estate, who witnessed the accident, was my brother saved. The farmer never received a shilling in return.

The fortnight I spent at my brother's while he recovered, away from London, was the fortnight I fell in love with you though you were there only in spirit. I realized that for you, young and innocent Miss Darcy, I would change my wild ways, taught to me at a young age by my elder brother. Thus I furthered my education, petitioned my reluctant father for an estate of my own and not until this winter did I feel myself ready enough to win you back for I felt sure now that I was as deserving of you as I would ever manage to be.

Imagine my position, Isabella, when I arrived at my close friend's, Mr. Kingston, ball only to find you utterly captivated with Mr. Kingston himself, to find that perhaps the work of almost six years would be inadvertently ruined by one of my greatest friends. I admit to engaging in sly deeds, for I met with James after the ball and helped him see that he would never win you, that the younger Miss Bingley was better suited to his tastes. You must admit, Isabella, the truth of such a statement for you never intended to allow Mr. Kingston to court you. Whether or not it was justifiable, you tolerated the relationship between you and Mr. Kingston merely as a diverting acquaintance and flamboyant flirtation.

But I loved you, Miss Isabella Darcy, and I still do. I am only very sorry you suffered for so long and again this evening, at your unfortunate discovery."

It took at least a minute for Isabella to stand in silence, sorting through the plethora of facts that took root in her mind. She tried to make sense of it all but her mind pounded and her heart beat too fast in her chest. She took a step back and sucked in a deep, shaky breath, the warmth of his close company too much for her overwrought senses to manage.

At last, she felt the confusion surrounding the incident fade but though her heart yearned to be stirred with pity, her anger flared as she surveyed his words in an emotion-afflicted perspective.

"And would you never have told me of your dealings with Mr. Kingston? Of your attempts to control my heart and me once again, Mr. Wellington?" she finally asked, voice shaking with suppressed tears and pain.

Mr. Wellington looked startled by the question, as if he could not understand why the Kingston affair was so central in her accusations.

"It is probable I would have shared the story of my dealings with the drama surrounding the relationship between you and Mr. Kingston once we were married. It was—and is—my hope that you and I would share such a connection that we would easily discuss all manners of things. And, Isabella, you must not believe me wishing to control you."

"Probable, Mr. Wellington? You _might_ have shared with me your subterfuge or you might not have. There are very few things I cannot stand, Mr. Wellington, and they are falsity, lies, and masks. You are guilty of them all." Her words were chosen to wound and so they did.

"Isabella…please…don't…" Mr. Wellington broke off, unable to finish.

"Do not what, Mr. Wellington? Run away? Break out of the chains you have placed on me? I am no one's to control, Mr. Wellington. You were a fool to try," she hissed.

There was a terrible silence and then the man drew himself up. "Do not worry of my not feeling the impact of your opinions. You have made your thoughts poignantly clear. I bid you a good evening and a good life."

With such a parting statement he left and with him left the last remnant of Isabella's sanity.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dorothy was still shivering, though she had entered from the garden at least an hour ago and been besieged by Miss Knightley for the rest. As she glanced about the room, she was struck with the absence of most of her cousins.

Catherine, Gemma, Grace, and Isabella were all disappeared. Jane sat in her mother's shadow, gaze trained on the floor, mouth opening not even to answer simple civilities from her confused mother and aunt. Mrs. Darcy was completely confused as to her daughters' whereabouts but knew herself unable to search for them without calling more unwanted attention to their absences than had already been incurred.

And now, when all Dorothy wanted to do was sit still and ignored to observe William, whom was involved in the evening's most infamous love triangle, she was approached by a rather awkward, worried Colonel Kerrigan.

"Good evening, Miss Wickham. Have you chanced upon Miss Catherine?"

"I have not, Colonel Kerrigan. She seems to have disappeared halfway through the evening."

"A pity, as I believe I promised her a dance."

A simple silence filled the gap between them, at last broken by a hesitant Colonel Kerrigan.

"Miss Wickham, I have observed you extensively and find you to be a most unusual young woman. You take part in no rumors and ignore gossip in a way so fervent it seems almost religious in manner. Thus I entertain strong hope in confessing to you what I have confessed to no other, so that I may learn your opinion of it."

Now Dorothy quit her discreet searching for the evasive William and glanced at Colonel Kerrigan, her interest piqued.

"I assure you of utmost secrecy in anything you wish to share with me," she replied evenly, her curiosity on the matter cleverly restrained.

"Yes, well, I am not…experienced in the most personal of women's opinions of things such as marriage," he admitted, face flushing profusely as the words slipped from his lips.

Dorothy felt the strangeness of him referring to so private matter and, with a rush of emotions she could not discern, realized he must be thinking of it much to have gathered the courage to ask the opposite sex of it. Indeed, he must be in the process of readying for a proposal!

"No, the general man is not, Colonel Kerrigan," she replied with a twitch of her lips.

"You see, Miss Wickham, I _specifically_ wondered at Miss—Catherine's opinions on the matter. My thoughts were that of all save her sisters, you as one of her particularly close cousins would be able to apprise me of what you know."

A dread engulfed Dorothy such as that she had never felt before. It collapsed over her like a great wave in the ocean she had never seen but had heard much of. She was startled at the enormity of the emotion and had difficulty fighting for breath as the room blurred slightly around the edges.

"Ah, Colonel Kerrigan, I believe I understand the direction of your thoughts," she managed thickly. "But I am horribly apologetic to admit that while my cousin and I have formed an intimate connection, I have only been acquainted with her since few days before our arrival in London. Thus, I have learned little of her opinion on civil union besides that of it being based on the deepest and most profound of lo—r-respect."

Dorothy could not bring herself to utter the word love, could not tell Colonel Kerrigan of Catherine's numerous other classifications for future husbands that she had ranted to Dorothy over and over again among annoyed accounts of the many men who had asked her to dance merely for the promise of wealth. She could not give him more confidence than he had; her traitorous heart did not let her.

"Of course, Miss Wickham. But you are flushed. Had you not better step into the garden a moment, breathe fresh air?" he asked, voice creased with worry.

Though Dorothy had had enough of _that_ garden to last her a lifetime, he had already steered her to the doors before she could murmur a response to the negative.

The air was colder than it had been when she and Grace had ventured outside earlier, though Dorothy could hardly believe it possible. The thin silk of her dove gray gown, newly made, fluttered in the air and exposed Dorothy's bare skin.

Colonel Kerrigan led her off the main path to a pretty fountain, where she sat uncertainly on the rim of the fountain and he leaned against the statue above. She craned her neck up to look at him, framed by the large full moon.

"You mentioned Miss Catherine as wishing a marriage based on respect, Miss Wickham?" he asked, voice as faraway as his gaze.

Dorothy felt herself begin to shake from far more than the chill and had to wrench her gaze from the Colonel to the statue. In a moment though, she had recognized the statue as Cupid in the process of drawing back a dreadful arrow of instant love. What irony the heavens had decided to drown Dorothy in this evening!

"I did, Colonel Kerrigan," she said faintly and clutched the rim of the fountain to keep herself from swaying.

"If you would forgive me asking so many personal questions—and _please_ refrain from answering if it gives you distress—would you tell me if you believe Miss Catherine to respect…me?"

It was too much for Dorothy's mind, plagued with swirling thoughts and wrenching confusion. She felt the world go blacker still and sensed herself falling backward into the fountain before she was caught at the last moment and then, with warm hands lifting her upward, she fell completely into black. But even in her state of unconsciousness, she heard two words repeating in her mind, over and over in a haunting pattern: _Run away, Run away, Run away_…

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dawn was just beginning to crack upon the horizon when people began to leave the Vicksburg manor at last. With them came her mother, aunt, siblings and cousins. They all entered and immediately Gemma was struck with the silence that had descended.

Tension ran taut in the air. Isabella had clenched fists and upper teeth clamped violently upon her trembling lower lip. Catherine's hands shook, her eyes swollen and red with tears. Dorothy was paler than Gemma had ever seen her and looked about to faint away. Grace was as still as stone, her eyes blank and devoid of any life while Jane, shoulders tight with fury, curled in a corner of the carriage and stared blindly out the window. William glared at his hands, kneading them with brute strength over and over again.

Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy were in complete confusion, heightened tenfold as they saw Gemma's stricken face, cheeks raw with tears and her isolation in the nest of blankets.

"Gemma?" Mrs. Darcy whispered but no answer was forthcoming and no further inquiry exhaustively made.

**Pretty please review! I'd love to know what you thought about this chapter!**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Thank you so much for the reviews! You guys are amazing **

Catherine could not remember experiencing such misery in the entirety of her life. She woke late the morning following the disastrous Vicksburg ball still dressed in her formal gown and the skin around her eyes so tender, it pulsated with pain when she touched it lightly. A quick, unsatisfactory glance in the mirror was all it took for Catherine to ascertain that her appearance had suffered under the same infusion of neglect and pain as her spirits.

She splashed frigid water on her face in an attempt to clear her mind of the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm it.

For now, tendrils of memory were reaching into her relative clarity of mind and she wished terribly they would retreat back to the exile they had been forced to when she had slept. Instead, she suffered through remnants of last night's ball, remembering a lady too lovely for justification, a cousin who had fainted away, and most painfully and strongly of all, a tall, dignified man whom she had thrown the worst possible accusations.

Oh, those accusations were true and deserved and she could not regret spitting them out in his face, but neither could she keep at bay the pangs of her heart as she remembered the stricken expression on his face, the twisting of pain in his eyes when she had—but no, she could not dwell on the past. Not, she reflected bitterly, that the present had boasted anything at all to distract her pleasantly.

In good time, Catherine's maid, Maggie, arrived to help her dress and Catherine realized Dorothy was absent from the room. Perhaps she had gone downstairs to seek shelter from her cousins' acute misery.

As Catherine numbly selected the drabbest and plainest of her garments, she felt Maggie's questioning eyes upon her and hardly managed to stifle a groan of consternation. No doubt the states of the Darcy family at the ball and as they arrived home would be spread like wildfire through London in the coming days, aided along in equal turns by gossiping, high-born ladies and gossiping, low-born servants.

"Did you have a question, Maggie?" Catherine asked at last, unable to bear the unspoken curiosity any longer.

"Not at all, Miss Catherine. I would like to inform you, however, of there being someone calling for you in the parlor downstairs. Been here an hour, he has, and poor Mrs. Darcy's been entertaining him all the while. However he strictly refused for your repose to be disturbed, or Mrs. Darcy would have sent to waken you far sooner."

At Maggie's words, Catherine froze and a rush of emotions engulfed her. Fear and hope were among the strongest, followed by a defiant streak of anger that grew as she reflected on the thin possibility of this caller being Lord Stratham himself.

In few moments though, she had dismissed the idea as absurd; he had cared little for forgiveness the evening before and she saw no reason why he should call on her now, his engagement to Lady Laura approaching as it was.

"Thank you, Maggie. I shall go down directly." Catherine then happened to glance at her thin, pallid form in the mirror, a tight face drawn with exhaustion, redness ringing her eyes in seeming permanence. She sighed and amended, "Best change into clothes more fitting for welcoming guests. And would you mind dressing my hair in as quick a manner as you deem possible without it looking like the rodent's nest it so resembles at the moment?"

"Yes, Miss Catherine." In minutes, Catherine had donned a simple but more appropriate gown in a somber color palette. Perhaps it was not fit for a courting call but it better described her tortured state of mind.

With her hair Maggie struggled with valiantly but it was too hopeless a mess of tangles for even her deft, nimble fingers. After watching her concentrated efforts for a few moments, Catherine simply bid her tie it up in a knot secured with a ribbon and in moments, filed down the stairs.

A passing servant directed her to the formal front parlor with more shrewdness than Catherine liked. She entered and was extremely startled and both relieved and—if she must confess—disappointed to find Colonel Kerrigan's genial face turning toward her.

"Colonel Kerrigan!" she cried in obvious surprise and hastily sketched a curtsy as he rose and bobbed a bow. Mrs. Darcy remained seated, her attractive face rendered sharp and pale with fatigue even as she flashed a brilliant smile that, through Catherine's familiarity with her mother, Catherine saw as false.

Her mother's short greetings were effused with likewise false warmth, for Catherine saw the exhaustion on Mrs. Darcy's strained countenance as clearly as if it had been drawn in ink.

"I apologize, Colonel Kerrigan, for my absence this morning. I confess to having slept rather late due to the long hours of the ball yesterday eve."

"Not at all, Miss Catherine. I insisted to your mother you not be disturbed from rest. Not all are early risers as me," he replied with true good humor.

"You are much like my cousin, Miss Wickham, then. I do not know of one who rises earlier than she yet retains pleasant countenance in such ungodly hours of the morning," replied Catherine in what she thought was amiable conversation but was proven opposite when her mother adopted a pained expression and the Colonel an uncomfortable one.

"Ah yes. I do hope Miss Wickham has recovered from her spell yesterday evening. Gave me a scare it did," he remarked. Mrs. Darcy managed a nod and replied in the affirmative, with a voice that spoke volumes on their having already exhausted the subject prior to Catherine's arrival.

Catherine commenced breakfast as nonsensical topics swirled around her. She remained rooted in her world of self-pity and hardly paid attention to the meaningless conversation Colonel Kerrigan and her mother kept bubbling along. Because of this, she missed the important question the Colonel posed when they had been sitting a good twenty minutes or so.

"I am sorry?" she asked, hearing her name featured prominently for the first time. Colonel Kerrigan shifted uncomfortably, a bemused expression on his uncharacteristically apprehensive face.

"Pardon me for not making myself adequately clear, Miss Darcy. I was requesting a moment to speak with you alone, if your mother would give me leave."

Ignoring her daughter's utter shock, Mrs. Darcy rose and gave her leave, whereupon she exited the room with a last, slightly sad, glance back.

Deeply confused as to why the Colonel sought her undivided attention and private company, Catherine set her gaze upon him, watching in amazement as he turned increasingly flustered and red.

"It is an honor, Miss Darcy, to request the company of one such as you and have it freely given from so courteous a mother," began Colonel Kerrigan and in that moment, his intentions became clear and Catherine's spirits, already struggling under the burdens of last night, plummeted even further.

"It is incumbent upon me to voice such feelings that brought me to your father's side not one month ago. Just a fortnight before this meeting, I knew you but in friendly acquaintance and yet it was obvious to me how joyous you made the time I spent with you. Not two more evenings after I realized that I looked forward to our time together and relished our conversations when they occurred. It was with these sentiments that I approached your father for the mere possibility of courting your hand. Sternly he gave his necessary acquiesce, with a warning to treat you as you deserved. He made it very clear that you were not to be pressured into a marriage of which you did not want a part. This I understood and I value your father tremendously for the regard he has for his family." Here the Colonel paused and Catherine pressed a hand to her cheeks, endeavoring to quell the hot blush that she felt rising.

"But to direct my ramblings in the direction I wish them to conclude, I would do my very best to voice my purposes behind this obvious intent of mine. For you, Miss Catherine Darcy, are everything that is kind and clever and while physical beauty means far less to me than other men, I have been readily informed by several acquaintance that your attraction is great. Your words are wise and sage, your purposes done with gentle hand and your intent pure and innocent." Again he took a long breath and Catherine wanted so badly to stop the words from his utterance, wanted to halt his speech but in her state of absolute numbness knew not how.

"After such a speech, haltingly and awkwardly done for I confess having little experience in the voicing of one's heart, I would beg you forgive such the hurried phrases in my eagerness I did share. I would also beg you consider my next proposal, for it is done with a clear and true a mind as could be possible. Little remains now, Miss Catherine, than to seek from you an acceptance to my proposal of marriage."

For an immeasurably long while, Catherine gazed in complete shock and dismay into the Colonel guileless, clear eyes, pleading with her in every manner possible for a positive answer.

Catherine closed her eyes in despair, recalling the broken expression upon the Earl's face just hours before, withdrawing a trembling hand from his grasp, walking away with shoulders that bowed in unspeakable pain every step she put between them. Then she recollected the last sad look her mother had given her before she walked out. Elizabeth Darcy knew what Catherine was going to do. She knew even before Catherine herself was sure of her course.

Yes, Mrs. Darcy knew that her second daughter—so much like she herself—had given her heart to another forever and that no matter the kindness of _this_ gentleman (for surely he was the most gallant in London) and no matter the impossibility of Catherine's love ever being requited from the man to which it had been irrevocably given, Catherine could not but refuse the proposal.

And so Catherine did, voicing her answer to the negative with closed eyes and hot tears pressing against the swirling darkness. When she reopened them to the sound of the Colonel awkwardly pressing a hat to his head, murmuring salutations and broken acceptance, it was all she could do to show the Colonel to the door and bid him well on his way.

Alas, the pain and confusion proved too much for her frail spirits. As Mrs. Darcy came running to her with a ready hug and eyes filled with tears, Catherine pushed the warm embrace away and thundered up the stars. In a fit of tears, she threw herself upon her bed and in a mind ravaged with the chaos of lost love, she spent her day in agonizing misery.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: So sorry for the wait! High school started and my internet was out for AGES! Due to school, updates might be a little less frequent, especially during the week. Luckily, I have the whole story written out so chapters should come up whenever I have a moment to spare. Once again, thank you SO MUCH for the reviews. They make me smile and keep me inspired.**

Staring out the windows of the carriage, unmoved by the sight of London's slums outside, Dorothy Wickham was a numb, empty shell. Ordinarily such scenes of squalid existence and poignant suffering would serve to jerk her own misfortunes into much-needed perspective. Today, they only heightened her miserable opinion that life was destined to ruin her.

Dorothy had left the Darcy house with only a simple note in her wake. She had endeavored a long while as the morning arrived to compose an adequate letter to fully explain her reasons for leaving so unexpectedly and silently while not voicing the true reason for her so-called escape.

At last, she had merely sketched a quick note saying that she felt London was not in her ability to enjoy and she would rather, despite the immeasurable and sincerely appreciated hospitality the Darcy family had so kindly shown her, return to her home where she felt she belonged best.

With only another phrase reassuring them of her safety, having purchased ride from a stagecoach using the last of the pin-money the Darcys had forced into her keeping, Dorothy had signed and left with nothing but the possessions she had arrived with. Let Gemma or perhaps Catherine, who resembled more Dorothy's slender figure, find better use of the gowns Mrs. Darcy had her tailored for during their London stay. Where she was going, Dorothy would find little use for them.

As she gazed at the naked suffering of London's most terrible resident areas, Dorothy was horrified and shamed that she could still pity her situation. The dull, constant beat of her heart added a monotony that she wallowed in. Her thoughts filled with a dance she had witnessed between vibrant Catherine and bright Colonel Kerrigan some ball before and she wished them fervently, though her heart burned at the thought, the greatest of bliss in their wedded life.

"She's gone!" cried a voice downstairs in pure horror and Isabella was so startled, she opened her eyes for the first time that day. Indeed, the eldest Darcy had been wide awake since they had returned home from the ball and no matter the pillows she stuffed beneath her head and the feather quilts she ordered brought up and the number of soft robes she wrapped about herself, sleep had refused to claim her.

But even though the sun's golden yellow light filled the room as the hours progressed, Isabella's eyes remained resolutely squeezed so tightly it caused her a headache. Now though, the shock of the cry piercing the silence of the Darcy townhouse was so forceful that her eyes fluttered open of their own accord.

Isabella blinked several times in an attempt to adjust herself to the sudden dazzling brightness of light and then recognized the canopy of her bed and the glossy wood furniture of the room. She sat up and shrugged off several layers of robes, her movements constrained by the thick folds. At last, she gathered the courage to swing out of bed and steadied herself, glaring out the window.

Though the night had returned some sanity to her ravaged mind, anger still boiled fiercely in her blood; so ferociously, in fact, that Isabella could easily believe she had just conducted the conversation with Mr.—no, she would not think his name!

Growling in frustration, Isabella stomped to her wardrobe and flung it open. Before she knew the direction of her thoughts, every dress she had worn in _his _company, every gown that had received the _distinction_ of his compliment was yanked from the wardrobe and thrashed to the floor. Not until every praised silk had been ripped from its position, all the admired velvets crushed underfoot did Isabella look about herself, stranded in a puddle of ruined dresses and realize that far from returning in the night, her sanity had deserted her completely.

With a choked cry of helpless distress, Isabella fell to the floor and the embroidery on the gowns dug into her cheeks as the heavy stitching of the fabric rubbed crassly against her bare leg. She did not recognize this selfish, crazed spirit that inhabited her and she could not imagine how she should banish it.

Isabella did not know how long she remained in the fetal position, immobilized by the pain of her ignited rage and the wound of her betrayal. At last, however, there came a rapid knocking on her door and she was stirred from her frozen state.

"Bella! Open the door!" cried the familiar voice of Mrs. Darcy. The usually strong, confident tone cracked with despair and anguish.

Though she could not believe the incivility, the wickedness of her response even as she said it to the resolutely locked door, Isabella cried back, "I do not want your sympathy, Mama. I do not want any explanations or pity! I demand you leave me to myself!"

There came a shocked silence at the door and then, in a voice tremulous with emotion, Mrs. Darcy responded with, "This is not about you, Isabella. You are free to act as spoiled, selfish and single-minded as you like in your state of confinement but I have things more immediate to care for such as your cousin's disappearance."

Jolting surprise touched Isabella, through her waves of distress, but her voice had lost its function due to the shock of her mother talking to her in such a way. It had never occurred before and though Isabella did not think her person could sink any lower, it did.

A long pause stretched between the incensed mother and daughter and at last there came a cold, impassive, "Oh, did I expect more of you, Isabella Darcy. This is not the woman I have raised you to be. You shame me."

Through the storm of Isabella's helpless tears that followed, she fell asleep, a stranded woman in an island of torn and ruined fabric.

It was evening by the time Gemma was visited by another person. She had spent the day in inconsolable misery, cursing in her mind the entire race of males, going so far as to condemn her own brother as being without a heart. After all, if one could decree all females silly and without thoughts save those of marriage, flirtations and wealth, then Gemma could not reasonably be faced any quandary in categorizing men as heartless and inhuman.

She had slipped in and out of sleep, fancying once in her light and uncomfortable periods of rest that her mother's voice had followed a knock on the door that was ignored and therefore silenced. She heard the same voice cry at a door, dimly registering Isabella's name at some point in the tirade that followed.

But most of all, Gemma heard only the beat of her aching heart and saw only the ceiling of her room. She had called Anna to help her dress and did her hair herself but as soon as she had done so, ripped it all off and ruined her hair again for there was no one Gemma wanted to look good for. She did not care about her appearance any longer; she did not care about anything really.

But now, a single voice, thick with hurt and controlled anger demanded from behind her door, "Your father and I await you downstairs for dinner." And Gemma knew with a sudden rush of fear that the command was not to be ignored.

As soon as she entered the dining room, fear at her father's sudden presence and her mother's terribly strained voice winning over her desire to remain shut up in the room that had since become both a heaven and a hell, Isabella was forcefully compelled to turn right around again.

For there sat her father, with eyes so stormy she would not have recognized them as his own and a face so sharp and defined with lines of anger, she nearly cried.

Beside him was Elizabeth, dark hair obscuring her most of her face, but what little that could be seen wore a harsher expression than Isabella had ever imagined could be worn by so amiable and easily-amused a lady.

Present at the table were also Catherine, who looked a mess, to be frank, and William, who gazed at the table with a studied intensity. Behind Isabella, Gemma arrived and her manner was so chaotic, her appearance so unusually neglected, Isabella at last began to understand that the ball had deeply affected not only her person but her siblings as well.

"Sit down, Isabella, Georgiana," ordered Mr. Darcy with no trace of humor or pleasant thought in his tone. Though Isabella knew Gemma would ordinarily stiffen or protest against the use of her full name, it did not seem to even be heard by her for all the change it wrought on her subdued countenance.

The family waited in tense silence as platters of food were brought in and, with a quiet word from Mrs. Darcy, the servants were dismissed from the room. Then came her single order of, "Eat."

Isabella thought it best not to try their patience, though she feared from the coldness of her mother's manner and the terseness of her father's that patience had long since gone, and piled her plate with food that she knew would remain uneaten. Her appetite was as empty as her heart and the mere thought of swallowing food was more than her fragile state of health could entertain.

Indeed, none of the children ate but merely stared at their plates, feet shuffling, fingers trembling, eyes darting everywhere save one's face: especially not Mr. Darcy. He now began to speak in a grave tone full of suppressed anger.

"It was my intention, as well as your uncle Bingley's, to surprise you with our presence the day following the Vicksburg ball. Thus we carried out the plan, eager to receive the company of our family, and traveled together from Derbyshire, where Bingley was conducting business as I was, to Town. We rode on horses, to make haste, but were stopped soon after our entrance to the residential district by Sir Vicksburg and a companion unknown to us before, who were out walking.

Imagine, Isabella, Fitzwilliam, Catherine, Georgiana, my infinite surprise as I learned from Sir Vicksburg the scandals which were invoked by my own _children_ the very evening before.

I was told everything from forbidding a man from one's presence, to facing off against a peer in the public eye of society, to mysterious retreats in the _garden_, to the unexplained disappearance of nearly all my children and nieces for much of the ball…all warped and twisted without the most ridiculous rumors I have ever had the misfortune of hearing, involving duels and betrayals and triangles of so-called _love_. All this was recounted to me by a gloating Sir Vicksburg, a man I have often condemned for being guilty of furthering scandal and staining the reputation of his family with faulty connections and lack of civility and propriety. How mortified was I to learn that the same things I had scorned the man for possessing had now been struck upon me by the Darcy son and daughters at the odious man's very own ball, in the judging, gossiping company of London's highest society!"

Isabella shrank from his every word, each accusation a blow to her ruined existence, until the ridged back of the chair pressed hard through the thin fabric of her dress. Her father's voice had risen by increments until it thundered against her ears. Then Mrs. Darcy placed a restraining hand on his arm and he took a deep, cleansing breath.

He sat back and continued in a low, angry voice, "This unfortunate meeting I bore with every last degree of civility I could muster and Bingley hardly more so. We made our adieus and excuses and rode in all haste to our respective houses. Despite our speed, I arrived only an hour before now, confused and mortified as to what I had been told.

Then your mother explained to me all she knew in detail and though the rumors were mostly false, your misdeeds and lack of propriety were true and against every principle we have ever endeavored to teach you. All ready enraged by what I had heard, just imagine the extent my anger was furthered when I heard of your mother's treatment at your hands. Despicable, immature and utterly intolerable: you are all four guilty of wounding one whom was only there to help you. Worst of all, you have betrayed scorn and ill manners to your own _mother_. Not to mention the flight of your cousin, no doubt through your actions and scandalous behavior."

At last, after the long day of misery and self-inflicted confinement, Isabella felt the gravity of the situation beyond her; saw clearly the disgusting nature of her treatment toward not just her mother but her siblings as well in ignoring their own troubles. A profound sense of shame pervaded her simmering exterior of anger.

She felt Catherine beside her shift in surprise at being informed of Dorothy's absence, saw her youngest sister recoil at the force in Mr. Darcy's words.

A silence descended in which the gazes of the Darcy daughters and son at last began to shift from their remote stares into emptiness and catch the eye of one another with an awkward and fearful expression. None of them dared meet the gazes of either Mrs. Darcy or Mr. Darcy.

"Dorothy wrote a short letter that inadequately explains the reasons behind her hasty departure," began Mrs. Darcy and finally the cold anger of her voice began to tremble with emotion beyond that of rage. "However, it can be gathered that she left due to your—" and here Mrs. Darcy waved a hand to encompass all four of her mortified children, "—inattention to her difficulties in assimilating into our society. You knew well that even by the Vicksburg ball many in society refused to tolerate her company due merely to the inferiority of her circumstances, furthered by their lack of knowledge of her character. And yet, despite your being aware of her difficult situation, you all abandoned her to the company of your aunt Bingley and myself, who provide company unsuitable for a woman her age the whole time of a ball. I was—and am—deeply mortified at your inability to remain by her side, for denying her society's welcome in the circles of youth where my power extends not."

Isabella felt even more now a burden of suffocating guilt, betrayed by the crimson that stained her cheeks and the tingles that ran in all directions across her skin. How abominably she had acted! How deep ran the veins of shame in the confusion of her thoughts!

More silence descended and now Isabella saw that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had said their part; it was now her turn, as eldest, to reply to these accusations, every one of them proven beyond a shade of doubt to be the harshest of truths.

Taking a deep, stealing breath, Isabella began, "Mama…I know now the vile way I acted in response to your comfort. I am immeasurably shamed and mortified to address such ill treatment as my own, stemming from my own clarity of thought, and beg you forgiveness in time. As for Miss Wickham, I lay at fault myself, for surely I should have shown toward her more welcome than I did and I receive the news of her unprecedented departure with a sense of shame. Lastly, as for the ruining events of the ball last night, I offer apology to have subjected our family to such rumors and presumption that have so humiliated both of you, Papa, Mama. You have never taught us to behave with such impropriety and lack of civility. I can only pray in time I am given opportunity to right these grievous wrongs."

A silence finished her choked statements and Isabella could look at none but then a warm presence enveloped her hand and, looking down where her hand rested beneath the table, she saw Gemma had encompassed it in a tremulous hold of comfort.

"Your apology, Isabella, is appreciated though the validity of it shall only be proved as the days go on and you regain our complete trust," said Mrs. Darcy finally, exchanging a long and pensive glance with her husband.

One by one, her siblings offered up trembling exclamations of apology and pleadings for forgiveness, received by two expressionless parents. However, as the last, Gemma, pled forgiveness, Isabella saw the apologies were appreciated by her parents but were not the total of what they desired from their children. Not at all, Isabella now saw with a growing sense of doom, for she saw the confused interest that warred in her mother's eyes and knew they wished explanations for such untoward actions. Just as she pondering this with no small buzz of alarm, Mr. Darcy began to speak gravely.

"As we settle amends between the bonds of family, it is incumbent upon me remind you of the shock and—often times—delight of society on your appearances at yesterday night's ball. Our most intimate acquaintances have contacted your mother through the course of the day and offered sincere regrets for the 'monstrous sabotage of the Darcy family name', very generously laying blame not on any of your four but rather on the tendency of those in attendance to the Vicksburg ball that first stirred such ridiculous rumors. As for acquaintances less true toward our family, you can be sure they spread false information even as we speak. However, it would do you all well to remember—before you go blaming the misfortune on such gossiping persons—in every rumor there is a grain of truth and it is for this grain that Mrs. Darcy and I hold you accountable."

Mr. Darcy at last paused and his stare burned into four sets of eyes in turn, forcing them with the strength of his gaze to meet his eyes. When he was satisfied upon the clarity of his point, he continued. "You are all four of you drained and exhausted with this tasking day, this meeting and the memory of last night's events. Thus, your mother and I will draw no explanation from you this evening.

However, you are all required to attend the Ashby ball later this week and, by the time the day of the ball dawns, we insist to be apprised of your situations, unblemished by rumors and stark in truth. Until then, you may finish your supper in peace and retire directly to your chambers. None of you can complain at such an order for you have sequestered yourself in such a way the whole of the day. What you do tomorrow is up to you but the day next, you are required to attend Sunday morning services. Good night."

Isabella hardly believed the cruelty she heard from her father. They were forcing them to attend the Ashby ball on Thursday? Were they out of their minds? Did they insist upon making their children the laughingstock of all decent society?

Mr. Darcy excused himself from the room, supper untouched on his plate, and Mrs. Darcy bid her quiet adieus as well, retreating in his wake. No sooner had the door closed firmly behind their mother's figure that Catherine burst into tears.

Startled by sudden display of emotion and the disturbance of the uneasy silence that had descended, Isabella watched helplessly as her sister succumbed to sorrow once more.

"Cate?" she ventured, voice rasping with disuse and the ravaging impact her own tears had wreaked during the whole of this prodigiously horrendous day.

"The…Ashby…b-ball!" wept Catherine amid sobs of anguish. Isabella was slightly disconcerted, straining to place her confusion over Catherine's acute despair into the straits of reason. Understandably Catherine did not view the upcoming ball with any degree more enthusiasm than the others and yet they were not so stricken as to erupt into such tears of distress.

Scanning through the hazy memories of last night's ball—hazy for Isabella remembered nothing well but her confrontation with _him_—Isabella thought she recollected Lady Laura arriving. Yes, she assured herself with certainty. Lady Laura had arrived on the arm of…oh, who was it? Lord Stratham!

Suddenly, it fell into place. Her father's comment of disputing with a peer, Catherine's former mysterious acquaintance with His Lordship, Lady Laura's obvious involvement with the man…How painfully did Isabella feel Catherine's despair! And William, he too subject to the whims of the Ashby family, with Lady Laura back to recapture his affections—or so Isabella reasoned due to the woman's obvious partiality to him during the ball—and Lady Margaret to taunt them! What disgrace had the Darcy family fallen into?

"I will retire upstairs," said Gemma shortly, her plate full and eyes empty as she accepted her eldest sister and brother's murmurs of good evening and Catherine's attempted warble at speech.

"William, I shall take Cate up to her chambers. Good night," said Isabella. He nodded and helped her raise a shuddering Catherine from her chair, seeing them to the stairs, which Gemma was racing up in obvious distress.

Isabella wanted to offer them all comfort but she had none to quiet even herself. So with a single backward glance at her brother, she helped Catherine to her rooms, summoned Catherine's maid to assist in her sister's preparing for bed, and returned to her own room in a state of misery more acute than that in which she had left it.

**There you have it, a little bit of depression to make your day a little bit more exciting I would LOVE to know what you think so PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: The LAST of the angst-ridden chapters, I promise! Things will start rolling again next chapter. Thank you for all the reviews!**

The winter had been strangely devoid of snow, with only the slightest occasional shower and the constant bite of cold to remind one that it was winter at all. However, the day Catherine rose to attend church, the sky had opened in a trickle of fragile frozen tears that perfectly reflected her mood, the weather a mirror of her spirits.

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had insisted upon their attendance to supper every evening, even if those around the table were silent. Beyond that however, Catherine, and, she presumed, Isabella, William and Gemma as well, was left to her solitary confinement in her chambers.

There was the short interlude when her mother had come to her rooms and demanded an explanation. Catherine relayed a simplified version of the events, purposefully emitting some of her own emotions and _his_ as well. She had sensed Mrs. Darcy had easily seen through the short story her daughter had recounted but she knew the root of it and did not pressure beyond such.

Catherine had not seen any of her siblings outside of evening dinners and assumed they did as she and occupied themselves in the lonely worlds of their chambers. The Bingley sisters did not visit once, though Catherine had often heard the soft murmur of Aunt Bingley downstairs and the loud, genial voice of her Uncle Bingley. She had not been requested to attend to her aunt and uncle and so presumed both Janie and Grace must be sequestered in their own home.

But now, at the immovable resolution of an uncharacteristically silent Mrs. Darcy and frighteningly sharp Mr. Darcy, Catherine was to attend mass this dismal Sunday morning. She dressed with little care, hardly noticing Maggie setting her untamed mass of hair to rights and observing only enough to ascertain that the gown she donned was as somber as she felt.

It was hardly surprising to find Isabella and Gemma also wore gowns of dark chestnut and pale grey respectively, the bland contrast of their dresses to the shadowed white of their skin furthering the discomfiting sight of exuberant Gemma in so depressing a gown. In contrast—and no doubt purposefully—their mother had worn a cornflower blue dress that was so distracting from the subdued hues about it that Catherine could not help but stare at its brightness.

They set off with nary a word to the other, the church a very short and easy walk from the townhouse and as walking was long acknowledged to be Mrs. Darcy's preferred activity, the walk was their means to going to mass every Sunday. The slap of her father and brother's boots on the walk wet with the falling snow was the only noise to pervade the still and quiet air. As she tilted her face to the weeping clouds, Catherine felt the droplets land on her exposed skin with more liquidity than usual snow. It was to turn to rain then; a cold, miserable rain that would etch its undesired mark on the streets of London.

And now they entered the church and Catherine felt eyes turn toward them, some veiled in apparent disinterest, others vibrant with fiery questions that set Catherine's mind to spinning. She caught the probing gaze of her aunt, Lady Georgiana Asher, and wrenched her own away as she perceived shrewd observation rising over worried confusion in her aunt's light eyes.

Thus began the Darcy children's reentrance into a society eager and ready to form trifling judgments and ridiculous conclusions to sate their unquenchable thirst for scandals.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Gemma had never desired so fiercely to absent herself from a ball. Truth be told, she had never desired—fiercely or not—to remain home when she could be dancing and enjoying the company of doting young men and delightful young women.

At this moment though, as her mother swept in with a commanding air, Gemma was ready to fall to her knees in despair. For once she wished she had not established a reputation for theatrics for in this moment, she felt as if she were a minute degree from collapse and was so very faint, her sight wavered and her mind spun. But no, Mrs. Darcy would not condone her daughter's antics on a normal evening and even less now, when she was so determined to see Gemma attend the Ashby ball.

"Are you readied, Gemma? We leave in few minutes," said Mrs. Darcy briskly and in the mirror of the vanity Gemma was seated at, tried to catch her daughter's gaze. It was a desire that would not be fulfilled for Gemma stared at the glossy surface of the vanity as she had the informal dining room's table every evening thus far.

"I am ready," she said. Mrs. Darcy was so surprised at the simple statement, her eyebrows shot up in doubting consternation.

"Truly?"

"Do I not look presentable, Mama?"

"Forgive my saying so, my dear, but presentable has never quite done your requirements on appearance justice. Nor have you ever been the first of your sisters to be ready."

The observation was met with silence and Mrs. Darcy's uncharacteristically subdued demeanor was augmented with a deep, suffering sigh.

"Very well. Let us cajole Catherine from her rooms," she said at last. Gemma followed Mrs. Darcy from her bedchamber and did not glance in the mirror a last time, as was her previously unshakable habit. She did not care how she looked; she did not desire to impress anyone.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"You must tell us, Miss Darcy, how it comes that neither you nor your sisters or brother have been sighted in Town since the ball at the Vicksburgs! Surely they are not so filled with false importance that it exhausted you all to the point of refraining from contact with society!" cried a Miss Jane Churchill, for whom Isabella had little respect.

Titters broke from the circle of avidly-observant young ladies at the uncivil but unfortunately true description of the Vicksburgs and more than one eye widened in awe at Miss Churchill's daring to accost perfect Miss Darcy with so obvious a ply for coveted information.

Isabella determined her expression remained impassive and replied in a cool, even voice, "On the contrary, Miss Churchill, we left for Sunday services. I suppose you have not the inclination to attend such or you should have seen us all in attendance."

A sour look overtook the false countenance of Miss Churchill and Isabella was forced to direct her gaze toward a more genial Miss Logan—a newcomer to Town but more intelligent than the general high society woman—to conserve the dutiful impassivity of her own countenance.

"Ah, an overlook on my part, Miss Darcy. However, you have not graced your presence at the theatre nor the Pump Room, both of which you so often frequent, and several of my sources have decreed you being entirely absent from any social gatherings at all."

Oh! The fastidious, impertinent woman did not understand the import of Isabella's cold and tight reply! Well, this upstart must be taught, thought Isabella with the now familiar twinge of anger welling into her pool of private fury.

"It is true, Miss Churchill, that my presence has not been seen at social convenes. My absence does not, however, necessarily entail a grave misfortune or dramatic tangle, certainly not one pertaining to the puzzle of romance. I suppose it would be too tame a theory for I to simply have no wish to frequent such mindless gatherings! Your _sources_, Miss Churchill, had best find other people to observe for I am unwilling to be subjected to such a breach in my privacy. I wish you an _excellent_ evening, Miss Churchill."

Still utterly composed save for a combatant flicker in her eye, Isabella marched purposefully to Jane Bingley—who sat in solitary silence—and took a seat, leaving shocked whispers and murmuring speculations in her wake. "Gossips are impossible to like, Jane. I have quite had my fill of them."

"I wonder it took you so long to think up such a notion," came the surprisingly dry response.

"Oh, it has festered in my mind a long while now but I have only just had the emotion to admit it aloud," replied Isabella hotly.

Soft and expressive eyes turned toward her. "Bella," whispered Jane as the aforementioned eyes filled with tears where once reserve and timidity had reigned, "Bella, I have lost my heart. It has shattered like a glass vase and the fragments are impossible to retrieve. I fear it is irrevocably broken."

Astonished by the tremulous quality in the pained whisper of a voice, Isabella felt her own gaze cloud with tears as she reached for Jane's hand and clasped it tightly. After a long moment, her cousin clutched back in the manner of one terrified and at a loss on how to proceed.

"Then we shall walk this path together, Janie. I confess myself quite uncertain as to how we regain our minds for though our hearts may be lost forever, sanity can not elude my grasp any longer."

A single tear trickled down Jane's pale cheek. "I am glad of your companionship, Isabella. There is not another I should rather have by my side in this. I am only grieved it must be on so raw and sorrowful a situation."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Ashby ball was a disaster beyond the proportions of what Catherine in her most unsettled frame of mind could have expected.

Jane Bingley sat in the corner of the ballroom, tearing discreetly with her arm wrapped around Isabella's shoulders while her cousin, flushed scarlet with the anger that so lineated her figure and defined her face these recent days, looked close to tears herself. Of Mr. Wellington there was not a trace, his absence sudden and surprising to all as he had left no excuse for his immediate departure.

Grace had not been required to attend it seemed, though upon further questioning, Catherine discovered from her Aunt Bingley that she remained at home with a light fever.

Gemma sat demurely by Mrs. Darcy's side, eyes never raising from the gloss of the marble. She seemed so frail and pale, in a gown of dark hues more for mourning than dancing and the last color one would expect upon a woman of Gemma's youth and character. After the first few hopeful men had been denied a dance with barely an attempt at civility and not even a glance their way, no more dared ask. Though one unfamiliar with Gemma might consider such behavior selfish, Catherine instead saw that her sister was suffering under a shattering of spirits, an awful state that, before this accursed season in Town, Catherine would not have thought possible.

Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley were under an obvious onslaught of speculative rumors and vicious questions from scheming matrons, delighted with five of the most desired single women being taken from many a young man's prospects in light of their wildly recounted, romantic misfortunes.

Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley seemed to fare no better, for though men would never lower themselves into speaking openly of gossip and romantic circumstances, the uncertain glances toward Mr. Darcy and the calculating ones toward Mr. Bingley spoke volumes of men's thoughts of the matter.

Indeed, the young men of particular close acquaintance with the Darcy and Bingley families (or, more appropriately, daughters) seemed to have absented themselves from the ball. For not only was Mr. Wellington nowhere to be found, but Mr. Logan had departed on urgent business to the country, Mr. Fitzwilliam had disappeared and both Colonel Kerrigan—whom Catherine had been unable to look in the eye—and Mr. Kingston kept to themselves in obviously damp spirits.

Of the Ashby family itself, for this was their ball, Catherine avoided them as best as she could. Once again, a ravishing Lady Laura entered on the arm of His Lordship, the Earl of Stratham, both making so imposing and handsome a couple, Catherine could easily see their likeness being painted into a famous masterpiece.

Soon after their shared first dance, Lady Laura had let it be known that she desired a dance from William Darcy and though the latter did his very best to escape from her entreaties, his ingrained civility was too strong to disobey and they danced the floor together now.

They danced as if together they created a moving target, for arrows of gossip and shocked rumors flew their way in constant succession. And if the expression of acute misery on William's face was anything to go by, the poisonous arrows had succeeding in piercing the Darcy son and heir's civil shell.

As for Lady Laura, she had never looked more triumphant and Catherine gazed at her in open hatred, not caring that her distaste was obvious upon the planes of her face. The unadulterated expression deepened to greater ferocity as she saw the perfidious lady's meaningful glance toward the corner of the ballroom, where her elder sister stood in an island of seclusion.

Lady Margaret met the smug and triumphant gaze with a piercing one of her own until, before Catherine's eyes, the strong and straight posture wilted, the mask of impassivity crumpled, and the elder daughter of Lord Ashby was forced to turn away from the younger in helpless defeat.

Now Catherine saw the game Lady Laura played and was enraged. Lady Laura held on to Lord Stratham for his title and the knowledge that he could not stray from her with the promise of marriage that no doubt existed between the two families.

William Darcy she had set to conquer as she had many years before for the mere reason that her sister had betrayed a partiality to him. It was no matter to Lady Laura that William had his heart broken long ago by the younger sister and that he had no interest in her at all. Nor did she concern herself with the pain she was inflicting upon Lady Margaret; in fact, Catherine would not be surprised if she rejoiced in stepping above her elder sister once again.

With a sudden fit of compassion, Catherine made her meandering way through the clusters of laughing and chattering people until she had reached Lady Margaret's side, whom had returned a pained gaze to her sister and Catherine's brother.

"Good evening, Lady Margaret."

Without preamble, the object of Catherine's greeting began to speak, eyes never wavering from Lady Laura and William.

"My sister has never forgiven me for the one aspect of our lives in which I am higher than she: age. We are a mere year apart and yet she thinks it a personal offense that I should assume the greater rank than she." The intonation was even but the import of her words harsh.

"I wish to ask you something, Miss Catherine. Would it not be enough for you to be the most beautiful, the most accomplished, the most beloved, better in every respect that is worth anything? Would you insist upon ruining a relation merely because she has the misfortune of being your elder sister? Would you, led solely by the wish to spite this elder sister, stoop so low as to steal from her the only man she has ever loved, with no intention of ever loving or marrying him in return?"

The agony in her suddenly broken voice was unbearable to behold, the fresh torment alive in her eyes shocking to observe. At last, Catherine admitted the truth, "I would not."

"Of course you would not, Miss Catherine. No one would save Laura. And it is she I am cursed to call a sister."

Silence descended between the two, Lady Margaret's fervent declaration dying in the air and blazing in the recesses of Catherine's mind. What a twisted sense of humor fate had. Needless to say, Catherine was not amused.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The hour was late as the Darcy carriage rolled up to the house and the family was weary beyond imagining as they tumbled from the contraption. Isabella's mind was so thick was exhaustion and the grueling strain of the evening she could hardly put a foot in front of the other.

At last she entered from the drizzling, sodden misery of the street into the warm, lit comforts of home. Catherine blundered into her from behind, rubbing her tired eyes with fisted hands. Isabella shook off her wrap, the soft fabric thoroughly drenched with droplets of icy rain and handed it to the waiting manservant just as someone—Mrs. Darcy perhaps—emitted a strangled cry. Isabella turned around in time to see Gemma pitching forward over the threshold and into her mother's arms.

Impossibly quick, Mr. Darcy lifted the dead weight in his wife's embrace and carried Gemma into the side parlor, an astonished family urgently banishing hazy fogs of exhaustion from their minds as they followed in his wake.

The youngest Darcy child had fainted away, her beleaguered breathing shallow and quick, her face frighteningly white in the flickering candlelight.

"Gemma," whispered Mrs. Darcy, her face stricken with a mixture of indiscernible emotions.

The servants were called for as well as smelling salts as Isabella tried to keep her swaying body from betraying her physical and mental exhaustion, concentrating her efforts on retaining her fearful vigil at Gemma's frozen side.

At last, after what seemed like the longest period of time Isabella had ever been forced to endure, Gemma's eye fluttered open and she looked at them all with a weak, unfocused stare.

"I do not feel well," she said breathlessly and Isabella had to smile at the absurdity of such an obvious statement falling from Gemma's pale lips.

"I daresay you do not," agreed Mr. Darcy, a hint of the ironic smile that had touched Isabella's face appearing on his own.

"Mama," Gemma said, voice dropping to a whisper, "Mama, I want to go home."

Isabella looked to her mother and saw the bright, confident eyes fill with expression, unfathomable in their depth.

"Of course you do, Gemma. We shall call a physician and if you are not better by noon tomorrow, you shall return to Pemberley with your father, as he is needed at home anyway," reassured Mrs. Darcy.

Despite the knowledge that this comforting assurance was only made due to Gemma's pitiable state, Isabella could not quell a surge of envy. How she wished to run to the safety of Pemberley! What she would not give to ride in the snow, the bitter blue of the winter sky shedding light on the most beautiful landscape in the world! But it was her role to remain in London at her mother's side, evading as best she could the follies and vices of those against her.

"Come now, Gemma, everyone, we are past sound thought and reason; it is late and it has been a trying evening. In the morning, it will dawn clear and we shall start again. Fitzwilliam? Would you carry Gemma?" asked Mrs. Darcy.

With murmured goodnights to them all, Isabella followed her father up the stairs, focusing numbly on the train of Gemma's gown trailing on the steps as she clung to Mr. Darcy. Each step became harder, the work more grueling than Isabella could imagine until at last she fell into bed, every trace of vivacity within her drained into sleep.

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